


The Perfect Storm

by Narroch, socksaregoodshit



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Andorra OC, Double Penetration, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fawning, Fuck Or Die, Gangbang, Grooming, Humiliation, Implied Necrophilia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Intoxication, Knifeplay, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Multi, Murder, Mutiny, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Object Penetration, Original Character Death(s), Pegging, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Pirates, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rimming, Suicide Attempt, Torture, Whipping, muffing, trans-antagonistic comment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:27:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 186,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27548317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narroch/pseuds/Narroch, https://archiveofourown.org/users/socksaregoodshit/pseuds/socksaregoodshit
Summary: England fucks Spain over a barrel - and the rest is history.
Relationships: Austria/Spain (Hetalia), England/France (Hetalia), England/France/Spain (Hetalia), England/Spain (Hetalia), France (Hetalia)/Original Character(s), Spain (Hetalia)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 88





	1. Deep Like Water, Red Like Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Narroch - Wow, really? Another one? OK, cool. This pandemic has done wonders for my writing. Let's just roll with it. XD

England's green eyes gleamed like emeralds, greed and domination reflected there as he stepped heavily onto the Spanish galleass and surveyed the damage - by now the ship was heavily listing, close to going beyond the righting moment, and he doubted it would last much longer with the rapidly approaching storm. His men had been chasing the ship the better part of the day, exchanging cannon fire whenever in range but the Spanish had luck with the wind and were able to avoid a direct hit until a cannonball had struck their main mast on the port side and caused the great wooden carrier to slow to a limp. 

Catching up had been a simple matter after that, and though Spain's men had fought bravely, they were no match for his numbers. As the ship listed to its portside like a drunk, it was clear they had been completely taken. England strode along the tilted deck, peering through the men who'd been forced to their knees on their own ship. He knew him instantly when he finally picked out the dark olive skin and the unruly brown curls. 

"Spain, finally caught up to you. Was it worth it to lose your ship and so many men along with it? You should have surrendered and saved us all this trouble," England sneered, gloating.

Spain growled at England’s cocksurety, glaring up at the blond with a defiant peridot stare, murky like the sea and bubbling with ire of the deadliest storms, like the storm that was drawing nearer with each passing second. Then Spain grinned, lips curling and eyes narrowing with a playfulness that they both knew was fanfaronade at this moment. He tried to play it cool, collected, but how could he when he’d so utterly lost to a rival? He may have lost the battle, but the war of words was only just beginning.

“Where would be the fun in that?” 

"You have a sick sense of humor, Spain," England responded, though he still grinned toothily at his captive; knew this was just an attempt to stall and distract. "But yeah, let's have some  _ fun _ then, Spain. Hold him up!" England ordered his men and they responded immediately, well-trained, and loyal as they roughly pulled him to his feet.

Spain grunted as he was lifted, legs bowed at the knees as he looked at England and he strained against the men who held him captive. He knew it was fruitless. England ruled with an iron fist, even if they were dead they’d still hold on until their captain said otherwise. But that didn’t stop him from putting on a show for his rival. The ever-increasing wind played with his hair, and he looked to the sky, rolling black clouds in his zenith indicating the maelstrom that was yet to come...

England pulled out his flintlock and stepped forward to tip Spain's hat off his head using the barrel, letting the tip trail down and linger against Spain's forehead. 

"You're not a captain anymore, don't need that hat or any of this." Without removing the gun from his head, England used his other hand to jerk Spain's captain jacket open with a few flicks of the gold buttons. Without his hat, he could feel the spattering of raindrops on his skin, dainty things with featherlight touches, indicative of stratus clouds lowering like a theatrical curtain, low clouds, and seafret billowing around them. England felt his hunger swell at the sight of his exposed collarbones - more from the domination and loss of power than anything else. "Strip him. You're not fooling anyone looking like that," England chuckled, amused by Spain's glare. 

Spain braced himself, muscles going taut. If he was going to humiliate him, he wouldn’t allow him the satisfaction of it being easy. At the prospect of being exposed, his heart picked up the pace, from fear or excitement he wasn’t sure, nor did he want to know. In an attempt at defiance, he spat at England’s feet. 

England looked at the spit on his boot as if contemplating it. Spain wasn't making it easy for his men, struggling and twisting as they tried to wrestle his shirt and britches off. 

"Really, Spain? So petulant. Stand back!" England ordered and the two men stepped away, still holding Spain by his arms so he was stretched wide open. England lowered the gun and without any hesitation shot Spain right in the foot, the same side where he'd spat England. As the gun discharged its ammunition, thunder rumbled overhead and ferocious winds threatened to take England’s hat. A squall line. The gun bucked harshly in his grip, the puff of smoke rising like a veil as his men jeered, Spain's crew wailed and Spain himself crumpled to the deck over the blood splatter. England jerked his head at his men who then continued to strip Spain, using a knife to shred his clothes off him. He had no strength to fight back and England's grin widened when they roughly yanked at his bloody boot and earned a full-throated shriek of pain. 

Swinging his leg back, England swept forward with a powerful kick, catching Spain right in the diaphragm, kicking the wind right out of him. 

Spain grunted and gasped at the kick, exhaling heavily as he fought for breath. 

Carajo!

Fuck.

Fuck.

He couldn't catch his breath. 

Fuck! 

Spain groaned, curling in on himself. 

"Bastard!" He managed to hiss. 

England laughed, very much enjoying the way he writhed. Despite the fire in his eyes, it was easy to imagine him begging from that position on the ground. 

"It's up to you how hard this is, Spain. Don't give me a reason to hurt you, it's just too easy," England gloated, pocketing his gun again. "Alright, hoist him up, boys!"

A rough rope was secured around his neck, tied into a fixed rather than a slipknot, and several men dragged him up to standing, three pairs of hands restraining him and holding him up. England turned to the remaining prisoners and eyed them critically down his nose. 

"You lot, you can either join my crew or stay. It's up to you. But if you join me, first you have to reject your captain, sever your connection. This should work…" England drew out a stubby silver dagger and hefted it in his palm so everyone could see it. He turned and without warning or hesitation jabbed it in and out of Spain's shoulder, like a pritchel to flesh, leaving a bleeding puncture to ooze. Spain's men all shouted and complained loudly, not one of them breaking rank. 

The pain in his chest from the kick hadn’t subsided, only worsened with being pulled to his feet. He gritted his teeth, but he was unable to prevent the cry that passed his lips as England rammed the knife into him. 

“B-- Bastard…” He trembled, struggling to stay standing with his own will power. He obstreperously did so. Despite the pain, he stubbornly fought against the hands on his body, breaking free long enough to flip England off with his good arm, somehow making the action look effortless and borderline lazy, even though he was trembling.

His breathing was heavy, and as England’s men re-established their hold on him, he sunk into their grasp. His whole body hurt, unbelievably so, hours of fighting and now torturous monotony that was being beaten down by his rival nation taking its toll. But he refused to beg for mercy. He’d rather die. 

England's smug grin widened seeing just how much Spain struggled. It was always more satisfying to take things by force, and as usual, Spain didn't disappoint. He could barely stand, was trembling like a newborn lamb in his men's arms, and England's eyes glowed with predatory delight as he watched the blood cut tracks down Spain's naked body.

"Just wait, old friend. I'll deal with you soon enough. But first…" England turned to address the rest of the captured crew. "Last chance, does anyone want to join my crew?"

Not a man budged, and Spain's first mate looked England right in the eyes and let loose a string of curses in Spanish. 

"Such loyalty…. You trained them well, Spain. I wonder how they will feel about you when you're covered in barnacles." England waved his hand and the men holding Spain shuffled him over to the edge and suddenly let go, left Spain leaning back against the rail, barely upright. England quickly pulled his gun and with all of Spain's men watching on, shot him directly between his eyes, teetering him backward over the rail and into the twilight-stained water below.

He hit the water with considerable force, feeling the baltic conditions chill him to his core even as his life quickly left him. Coupled with the blood loss, the cold water left him frozen, the pain in his skull was unbearable, his body faring no better thanks to his foot, his shoulder, and his torso. Death was a brief relief. 

He wasn’t sure how long he was unconscious for, how many minutes had passed until he revived, but it was long enough to let his lungs fill with water and wake up beneath the tumultuous waves, being dragged along by his neck as the huge ship sailed on, looking like a black hulking beast from the underbelly. Spain’s lungs burned, his sinuses on fire, and despite the pain wailing through each limb he forced himself to kick, to struggle upward, anything to relieve the intolerable agony of drowning. 

When he finally reached the surface, a feat that would have killed a normal human, Spain hacked and coughed as he regained consciousness, desperately emptying his lungs of brine. Spain let himself be tugged roughly by his neck, simply closed his eyes, unable to deal with the waves hitting his body; the swell kicked up by the royal galleon twisting him awkwardly in inky troughs and white-water crests, he gasped in his attempt to stay afloat, breathing when he could get above the water enough to take in air, treading water weakly. He watched both the galleon and galleass heeling thanks to the wind, the storm’s full fury only just being unleashed.

Thanks to his men and their unwavering loyalty, he was quick to gain enough lucidity to know what was happening, well, it was still far too slow for his liking, but it was better than being limp in the Atlantic during such tempestic weather.

He could hear the sound of the cannon fire, could see the orange hues of hell as his galleass caught fire, and fell victim to the waves, and every time he came up for air he could smell and taste the gunpowder, thick in the air. As well as the distinct smell of lightning. 

England delighted in the concussive explosions, the wood splintering and flinging like shrapnel, the heat from the canons belching fire and round shot as they sailed around Spain's maimed ship in a wide circle and used the wreckage as target practice with timed conservative blasts, blasts that were almost completely drowned out by the roaring wind and driving rain, the odd flash of lightning illuminating the sky and being followed by deafening booms of thunder. They might have saved the ship, the mast could be replaced, but it was a headache England didn't want to figure out towing the disabled ship in the middle of a storm. Plus, he knew what a complete loss would feel like, how it would break Spain's spirit to take down a fully furnished galleass. 

He had of course taken every scrap of treasure and useful supplies out of her hull before blasting away - from gold stolen from the New World to the food they had stocked for the voyage home, everything now rested safely in his ship's underbelly. She was riding lower in the water for how much booty they'd added, and England was in a rich and festive mood as he watched the galleass break into tinder and finally split down the middle with a terrible rending creaking, ocean rushing into the void to drag the whole ship down.

England glanced back at the line that held Spain secure in his water prison. It was pulled taut over the rail, tugging him along as they sailed around and around. He smiled knowing what he must be going through, waking up underwater, no choice but to drown again before reviving, over and over. Nations were ruthless, power-hungry creatures. If the situation were reversed he was sure Spain would do the same to him. Perhaps something even worse, so he felt none of the pity or horror Spain's men showed. They had no idea how barbaric Spain could be in his worst days, they hadn't lived through his Inquisition phase of madness. 

Still, it _ had  _ been quite a while. Perhaps he would be more pleasant after being waterlogged. England gave the order to his men who began to pull the rope and dredge Spain back up from the cold, gripping ocean.

As he felt the rope tug at his throat, Spain hooked his fingers through it to relieve some of the suffocating hold. But that left him susceptible to the wind as he left the water, hitting the side of the galleon and swinging out again, only to collide with it harder than the first time. 

He coughed, spitting up seawater and he groaned, grimacing as he hacked up more brine. As he was hoisted over the ship’s rail, he collapsed onto the deck, trying to lift himself but his shoulder gave out under his weight, strength drained by the ocean, he didn’t lift his head, didn’t dare to look at England. He wasn’t about to beg for mercy, but he also couldn’t bring himself to do anything that even resembled fighting anymore. 

He tried to scoop himself up off the deck once more, his attempt being thwarted again, by his legs this time, shaking with exertion and shivering from the cold. Spain decided at that moment to lie still, his body too hurt, too wrecked to do anything. 

He did, however, chance a glance at where his ship had been minutes earlier, his eyes stinging at the sight of her stern sinking below the rough waves. She had been his pride, a hybrid with potential ahead of its time, and now it was nothing more than a wreck beneath the waves. Much like himself. A wreck. 

He fisted the deck in anger and defeat, clenching his hand hard enough for his nails to cut into his palm as he rested his head on his forearm. 

"What's wrong? Crying over your little ship Spain? She's gone. See your captain?" England raised his voice, speaking to the line of Spanish men now shackled in a long chain-gang along the deck. "He's crying, you know. Still want to follow him?" 

None of them moved or said a word, many of them also hung their heads and wept quietly, more so now seeing the state of their representative. 

"Oh, and since I sank your ship, I guess that means you're not even a captain anymore anyway, right?" England asked sarcastically. “And still, none of you will change? All steadfast?” England glanced at all the glum, tear and rain-stained faces that nonetheless held a fierce love and loyalty to their nation, never faltering even as he hacked up blood and seawater in front of them. It actually annoyed England. He thought at least one of them would crack. England frowned in disappointment. Another tact then. 

“Alright, well, we don’t have supplies for worthless prisoners so-” England strode forward and grabbed the first man on the chain and yanked him to his feet, dragging him and the rest of the chained men closer to the edge, the ship heeled harshly to the starboard side, almost sending the man toppling into the briny deep before it was time. They were all yelling frantically in Spanish, the man’s brown eyes wide with terror as England dangled him over the edge, and without any hesitation, he shot him right in the heart and let the deadweight fall. The rest of the men were dragged closer to the rail and England bent down to grab the next, intending to shoot him as well until the whole line was sunk beneath the waves. 

At England's words, Spain felt his blood turn to lead. And at the sound of the gunshot, his head snapped up to see his crewmate fall overboard. 

"No!" He demanded, gritting his teeth. He struggled onto his knees. "Don't you dare." 

Spain crawled forward, fingertips digging into the deck and he fought to stand up. He glared at England with fury in every feature. "This is our battle. So leave them out of it, cabrón!" 

He stumbled drunkenly forward, reaching out to grip England's lapels, with weak fingers he grasped them before falling to his knees, unable to hold himself up any longer. 

"Please…" 

The tremor of the fists clenched into his jacket, the liquid fear in his voice, the way he kneeled before him… England decided it was enough. 

“You do as I say, no matter what, and I’ll spare the rest of them. What do you think, Spain? A pretty good deal considering you’re immortal and they are decidedly not.”

Spain looked down, it hurt his pride to relinquish control. But at the same time, he'd learned to do anything for his crewmates. Respect and loyalty was a two-way street, give and you receive. That's what he'd learned the hard way. And that's what England would probably never understand. 

"Deal," he admitted through gritted teeth, closing his eyes. 

England’s smile elongated into a snarl with too many teeth and without another word he grabbed Spain’s wrists and shoved him off, grabbing ahold of the rope still hanging limp and wet from Spain’s neck as he strode toward his captain quarters, dragging the bloody and winded prisoner behind him. 

“Come on then, let’s make your  _ noble  _ sacrifice worth it,” England gloated. He originally planned to take him to his bed, but after pausing in the threshold, his fine stolen silks and tapestries were too valuable to have Spain leaking all over them. So at the last second, he steered them toward the cargo hold instead, a latticed wooden grate lifted open to the left of the cabin. He didn’t let Spain get his footing, didn’t let him find the rope ladder to let him down carefully. He tossed him in as if he were a sack of grain and then England leisurely made his way beneath the hull to collect him from the floor. 

Spain groaned, pushing himself up off the floor. 

Fuck…

He looked up at England with wide eyes, and then he scanned the room, for anything he could use to his advantage. But it was so dark, he couldn’t see a thing other than a few barrels and all of the loot from his vessel. 

His blood began to boil--

No. 

No.

No. 

He had to do whatever England wanted, otherwise everyone would perish. Although, with the storm raging outside, and being in the hull of the ship under the water where air and water pressure collectively made his ears hurt he wondered if they’d all succumb to the ocean long before they returned to the safety of the Channel. 

England climbed down into the hull, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom and listen to Spain’s labored breathing. 

“That was quite a performance you put on for your men… You made them think you care about them,” England mocked, circling his downed prey. 

Spain spat on the floor, away from England’s feet this time. “You think I’m  _ performing?  _ You really are an arrogant fool.” He swallowed thickly. “England… enough bullshit. What are you planning?” 

He fought to kneel, hating how he had to look up at England to address him. 

“Come now, surely you’re not that naive. You’re a nation… You should already know. What would you do if you were in my position?” England stepped closer, actually knelt so they were at the same level, though it still only served to highlight the difference between them. Even in the cargo hold England wore his hat, his full captain’s regalia, and with all the feathers and ruffles and layers he still seemed to tower over Spain even when kneeling to talk to him.

Spain looked into his eyes, his own betraying his instant realization, his sudden fear. He lifted his good arm, instinctively going to hit England across the face. But he was slow. Injured. Weak. 

No. 

He wouldn’t let him. 

But… his men.

He could feel his raging pulse in his throat, in his head, in his chest. 

England lifted his hand to stroke Spain’s face, a mockery of kindness.

“You would do it too, the cruelty, the violence, the killing… It’s a part of who we are.  _ What  _ we are. When you’re on top you can’t help yourself. You know what I’m talking about, right Spain?” England’s thumb rubbed slowly up and down over Spain’s raised cheekbone. His eyes bored into him as he spoke, jade and emerald and tourmaline - his eyes glowed a multifaceted shade of greed, deep enough to rival a dragon. 

Spain swallowed, flinching under his touch. Spain’s skin was deathly cold from the ocean, and he shivered. He gritted his teeth to avoid the chattering sound of the cold. 

“I really want to kill you right now,” Spain growled, swatting away the feathers on England’s hat with his good hand, and gripping the hat in his fingers, about to pull it off his head and throw it if it weren’t for the fact that England gripped his wrist and stopped him.

England glared at him and crushed his wrist, forcing him to drop the hat. He held onto the offending limb, standing and dragging him as he spoke.

“Ah yes, killing. Dying. If only it were that easy for us. You know that’s not how we handle our issues…” England slung Spain forward and then kicked him, sending him spilling into the line of rum barrels, knocking one heavy one over with the force of impact. 

Spain moaned in pain, looking around in a daze, leaning heavily on the barrel of rum, he’d hit his face during the impact. And now he could taste metal after he’d bit his tongue and cut his lip. 

“Fuck…” 

He swiped at the blood with his arm, streaking his skin with crimson. 

Spain hated every second of the torture, but he endured for the lives of his men. He noticed a loose nail in the barrel, how it caught the skin of his arm. Without thinking he pulled it from the barrel, hiding it in his palm and waiting for his moment to strike.

England stalked forward and grabbed Spain by his throat, dragging him up and over the convex curvature of the upended barrel and then bodily flipping him over so his long tanned body was slung over it, ass up in the air. England pinned him by the neck and stretched him long, leaning in so Spain could feel the difference in their power. Stripped naked, torn and tattered, laid defenseless - versus layers of plush cloth, dick heavy with anticipation, domination imminent.

Spain felt his world turn upside down, disorientation rippling through his entire body at England’s swift actions, when he felt the outline of his cock, he froze. This was happening. This was actually happening. 

He looked to the side, wondering if now was his chance. With deft fingers, he rotated the nail in his palm, rust staining his skin, keeping it concealed from England. No. Not yet. His men were still in danger, he was too weak to fight and win at this moment in time, so he had to bide his time. 

But that didn’t change the fact he was undeniably afraid. 

His legs shook, both with fear and exhaustion and a consistently low body temperature that surely indicated the first signs of hypothermia. The ship creaked as a strong wave hit it, crosswinds driving the ship to the port side. He closed his eyes, ducked his head, and prepared to let England have his way. He was beaten. 

“Just get it over with already.” He bit, hand threatening to let go of the nail. What was the point, anyway? 

Just as it was about to fall through his fingertips like grains of sand, Spain stopped. He couldn’t give up, and his grasp tightened on the nail. He wished he had his Alfanje, aptly named after the type of weapon it was, the cutlass would be more than enough to cut England down. The short-sword would’ve been enough… 

With its customized hilt,  Spanish sphalerite decorating the guard like fiery diamonds, and accompanied by silver filigree flowers, it was more of a ceremonial sword than anything else. A display of wealth, power, and orange gemstones that reflected the sun that blessed his lands reflected his personality. He often found himself staring into the sphalerite, being captured by the dispersion of the jewel. How he would love to stain Alfanje’s blade red with England’s blood. 

“Get it over with, hijo de puta!” He repeated, losing his nerve with how long he’d been waiting, anticipating, nothing happening.

England chuckled, not letting up the pressure. He pulled out a short sword from beneath his jacket, the orange of the gems in the hilt catching the limited light in the hull and casting bright dots against the wall. Even England could recognize how fine the weapon was and he grinned evilly as he unsheathed the blade and let the naked steel touch lightly to Spain’s back, not enough pressure to cut, but he definitely felt it, stiffening as the cold metal traced over his exposed flesh. 

Spain tensed, gasping as gooseflesh rose on his skin, hair standing to attention. He turned as far as he could, looking up through a curtain of brown lashes at England and his cutlass. How dare he.

“Alfanje!”

This was bad. Half expecting him to behead him, or slice him up, quarter him up and hang him from the front of the vessel like a figurehead. But he knew England well. He wouldn’t make it that easy.

“Yes, your precious sword. I bet you want it back, don’t you? Such a nicely made weapon… Shame it had to hang off your worthless hip for so long. I’ll put it to better use,” England chuckled lowly, listening to the scrape of the honed edge against Spain’s skin, the lightest sound of scratching. He lifted the blade and flipped it so the pommel was facing Spain, the blade tucked safely back under his arm as he pressed the bulbous end to the cleft of his ass. Holding the hilt he began to push the round pommel into Spain’s ass, forcing him to stretch open over the gemmed hilt he was so proud of. It didn’t sink in immediately, his body straining against the intrusion so England applied more pressure, bearing down on him until it suddenly wrenched him open and sank inside. It didn’t go very far, the guard stopping him from truly fucking him with the sword, but it was still enough to ram the pommel in an out roughly until it pulled out bloody.

Spain tensed at the intrusion, unable to relax his muscles or do anything to prevent it from hurting more. He cried out with each shallow thrust and every notch of jewels catching his rim, every one of his nerves was on fire, lit up by the pain of being so violated. His legs trembled, struggling to keep his footing as he arched his back and glared at England through the corner of his eye. 

Fuck. 

Fuck. 

He tried to fix himself on the barrel but found himself unable to do so thanks to England’s brute force, almost holding him in place with the cutlass’ hilt. 

This changed things. 

How dare he violate him in this way. 

He gripped the nail tighter, swinging his arm back and behind him, digging the rusted, pathetic excuse for a weapon into anywhere he could reach. Landing a hit in something firm, his thigh, maybe? 

England was thoroughly enjoying the way Spain twitched and arched against the barrel, barely able to move from how he laid stretched over the side of it. He was busy grinning and focused on the blood on the pommel and so he completely missed it when Spain strained and flung his arm back at him. He felt the rusty nail jab into his thigh and jerked back in surprise, a sharp yelp escaping his throat as he pulled away, jerking the sword out with him. 

“You bastard!” England yelled, pulling the nail out of his leg and flinging it away. The puncture wound bled quickly, despite being so small, and England snarled as he pressed his hand over the wound. He dropped the sword to the ground where it loudly clattered and rolled away and snatched up the sheath instead, using one arm to begin whacking Spain with it over his ass, back, thighs, anywhere he could reach, the loud sound of impact echoing through the hold and Spain’s cries could even be heard above deck, above the sound of the tempest outside. He didn’t hold back, didn’t taunt, was just filled with rage and violence as his white trousers stained crimson down the front.

Spain cried out with every hit, body jerking in an attempt to escape. He wasn’t blind to where his cutlass had fallen, and he fell to the floor, curling up and rolling onto his other side in a guise to protect himself from England’s unrelenting hits. He reached out, gripping the bloody hilt of his sword and grimacing, and as England approached to continue striking him, Spain swung the blade, blocking his attack. 

He was still on the floor, body too weak to stand swiftly. But as he fought against the pressure of England’s pushing, he struggled to his knees. 

“Idiota…” He snarled, finally pushing up onto his feet. Everything hurt, but he finally felt he could change the tide of the battle now he had some semblance of control. His heart beat in a strong rhythm in his chest, adrenaline beginning to take over his worn-out body. 

The sword sunk through the sheath and England was surprised that he had the strength. He watched through narrowed eyes as Spain staggered upright and swayed in place, cutlass held aloft toward him. He shouldn’t have dropped the sword but he hadn’t expected Spain to be able to pick it up, let alone fight back. 

“So what now?” England panted, his eyes flashing, holding the sheath up as if it were a blade. “You think my men will allow you to just stroll up there and take over? You think your men will survive this?” England didn’t wait for an answer, leaping forward with the sheath, swinging it at Spain to knock his blade aside and get closer. 

Spain was delayed in his reaction, using his weaker arm to prevent the hit, but just barely. He lunged forward in an attempt to impale England, his injured foot giving out under him and he staggered forward to maintain his balance. 

“All I have to do is come out on top in our fight. When I do that you’ll see. You’ll see just how strong my men are when they throw you overboard and we take control of this ship.” 

Even to his own ears, it sounded cocksure, too cocky and arrogant, but just moments earlier he was about to be overcome, now? He had a fighting chance. So anything could happen. 

His body was streaked with blood, breathing labored and uneven, bruising and welts beginning to rise to the surface of his skin. He was in no shape to fight. But that didn’t stop him trying. He swung his blade at neck level, fully intent on taking England’s head and parading it along the deck before sticking it on a pike for all to see, throwing his body overboard and giving his men no choice but to jump in after him. 

England parried the blade with the sheath, knocking it past him and then thrusting the point forward so it struck him in the ribs. If it had been a blade he would have been skewered, instead, it was like a concentrated punch in the gut that shoved him back. He didn't stop there, using the momentum to take several steps into Spain's range and throw another kick, knocking him back further.

Spain flailed to grip England’s leg, just catching his heel before his shoulder locked, he groaned and let go, gripping his shoulder and swinging his blade recklessly in the process. He took a few shaky breaths, regaining his composure.

“I swear, I swear in God’s name, you’ll have to chain my every limb before I’ll  _ ever  _ give into you, England.” 

England had to leap and lean back to avoid the wildly swinging sword and gave in, stepping away to glare at his prisoner who just hadn't accepted his fate yet. There was no escape and the struggling just made his sadistic streak rise to the surface. 

"That can be arranged," England growled in response, throwing the sheath at Spain's face and pulling out his own blade instead. He didn't give him time to recover and rushed in slashing down at him, setting the pace of the fight, and forcing him to block. 

Spain narrowly dodged the sheath, blocked the attack, having to use both arms to support his blade. He grunted at the force England used and only had one line of attack in his position - he used his injured foot to kick at England and landed a hit in his stomach. Sent England backward and him to the floor. 

With panting breaths he lost his footing, falling onto his ass. He scrambled, twisting to kneel and climb back to his feet. But he hadn’t kicked England hard enough and the other nation quickly closed in on him. 

He crawled away, his injured shoulder giving out under him.

“Mierda…” He panted, trying to get back up but being unable to do so. “Shit…” 

He dragged himself along the floor of the cargo hold, ramming his cutlass into the deck, and struggling to use it to support him into a standing position.

He wasn't fast enough. England came in with another kick, this time aiming at Spain's face and connected soundly, flinging him back to the ground, blood streaming from his nose. While he was flat on his back England stomped down on his shoulder and flipped the tip of his blade so it faced straight down. Before Spain could even realize what he was about to do, he plunged it down, stabbing his shoulder, piercing through the other side and then into the deck of the hold, pinning him in place. 

England smiled at the screams, it was almost as satisfying as planting his flag in someone else's land.

Spain screamed, kicking at England with weakened legs. He tried to remember to breathe, in and out, in and out. But the pain was too much to bear. He retched, turning his head to the side, dry heaving thanks to the agony of being impaled. He coughed as blood trickled down the back of his nose and throat into his mouth. He spat, but there was no power behind it and the blood just ran down the corner of his mouth. 

He closed his eyes, “I surrender.” 

England laughed, crowing in the darkness of the hold as blood began to well up and over the blade, watching as it trickled down Spain's arm. 

"So much for never giving in… Pathetic. What was even the point, Spain? You're meant to be under me." England stared at his fallen rival, the twitching, and retching as he was skewered to the floor. It was a good look. England knelt and grabbed his free hand which had been clenched around his shoulder and slammed it back to the ground, drawing out his short dagger and raising it high over his head before swinging down and stabbing it through his open palm. 

England sat straddled over Spain and enjoyed the way he bucked and rolled against him, both arms immobilized, blood and bile, and tears streaming down his face, his eyes wide with shock. England grabbed him by the throat and crushed down, choking him for good measure. He hadn't planned to go this far but it was Spain's fault for getting him riled up. He wouldn't be satisfied until he was completely shattered and submissive at his feet.

“Stop,” he rasped, “please.” He closed his eyes, scrunching them shut as more tears rolled down his cheeks. 

He tried to reach for England’s hands on his throat, crying out when the dual blades tugged and tore his skin. Bad idea. Bad idea. He jerked his shoulders instead, straining against England’s body. 

By now his skin was pasty, the warm and healthy olive color awash with grey. Several shades paler than before thanks to the blood loss and cold. 

“Please…” He trembled, lying completely still now and accepting his fate, a single tear escaping his closed eyes and disappearing into his hairline. “I’ll do anything…”

England released his grip, let him breathe, grabbed his fringe instead, and jerked his head up. 

"Very good, you're finally starting to get it. Now -" England began to loosen his belt, untie the cord lacing up his crotch, shove the many layers out of the way, "Open your mouth. And remember, if you even graze me with those teeth I'll cut your dick straight off, got it?" He gripped himself and withdrew his cock which was already hard from the fight, from the pain and subjugation he was forcing on another country. It always got him going. 

Spain coughed and sputtered when the pressure was removed from his throat, nodding frantically in understanding. He opened his eyes and watched his movements. He nodded, closing his eyes again and opening his mouth, tongue lolling against his lower lip. It was easier giving in.

England scooted closer, angled his cock down into his open mouth, and let his hips roll forward, sliding into the wet heat. He sighed in relief - it had been so long since he'd been at port, since he'd had another country at his disposal; using his hand for months at sea meant spending himself in Spain's unwilling mouth was a rare treasure. He moved his hips but then stopped, grabbing Spain by the back of his head and jerked him back and forth over his length, enjoying the vibrations of whimpers against him.

Spain whined at the intrusion, keeping his eyes closed and jaw slack, his tongue ran over the sensitive underside of his cock, flat against his shaft, applying just the right amount of pressure

"Ah, Spain, I forgot how good you can be... When you put your mind to it... Fuck!" England wanted more, needed to go deeper. He used his arms to pull himself up higher, leaning fully over Spain and tilting his head back so he could get closer. With Spain's head pressed flat to the floor, his hips aligned directly over his head, England was in a better position to hump right down into his throat and he didn't waste time picking up a fast pounding rhythm. It felt so good, Spain gurgling wetly around him, the sound of his head hitting the wood in a steady tempo, the tightness of his throat as his gag reflex was jabbed over and over.

To fight back on his gag reflex, Spain swallowed repeatedly around England with every thrust, unable to say a word he, instead, opened his eyes and furrowed his brows in disapproval, a grimace in his eyes but absent from the rest of his face.

England couldn't see his face, too busy chasing his own pleasure, plowing steadily towards his end. He hadn't cum in a while and so it didn't take long for his thrusts to grow more frenzied, his breath coming faster, hands sliding down to tangle and twist in Spain's tousled brown hair, pelvis crushing his face... 

"Here it comes - fucking take it, take it, take it, ahh~" England rammed his hips down hard, his cock lodged as deep as it could go, twitching as he spilled his release.

Spain groaned as he felt it, an involuntary noise that he'd later berate himself for, as England came he tried to swallow all that he could, knowing the consequence if he didn't at least try. He struggled to find the right position to take him down, craning his neck only to be forced back down. He choked as England did a particularly strong thrust to the back of his throat, swallowing at the wrong time and being caught off guard by another thick rope of come. He fought back the subsequent need to cough... No. No. No... don't cough. Don't. 

His eyes began to water again as a result, his throat feeling raw and abused. Don't… 

As England felt the last pulses of pleasure pull from his hips he could feel Spain choking and coughing beneath him. England sat up, sat back heavily on his chest, and watched as the country struggled to swallow his cum and suppress his coughing at the same time, eventually choking, and a small dribble of cum leaked from the corner of his mouth. England smiled before he slapped Spain, whipping his head to the side before smoothing his hand over the reddened skin, smearing the pad of his thumb up and sealing the leak back in.

“There you go, back inside now love…” England smirked.

He gasped at the slap, feeling the wind leave his lungs, and with a staccato breath, he regained control of his breathing. At the feeling of England’s digit against his lips, he opened his mouth in response, tongue coming out to lick his thumb clean. He couldn’t resist nibbling at the tip of his thumb, taking it into his mouth and lightly sucking as he closed his lips around it. 

If he was going to be taken by England, he’d at least put on a show. 

“Ah, yes… Good boy. There it is…” England watched intently as Spain lapped at his thumb, smiling deeply as he recognized the compliance. He was finally in the right mindset. England lingered there for a moment, enjoying the contact as he shifted back to stand up. He stood towering over Spain still wrecked on the floor, straddling over him with his legs, crossing his arms across his chest to sneer down and admire the state of his fallen rival. 

A half cough, clearing his throat, Spain swallowed, a quiet groan escaping his lips at the praise, relishing in it rather than being slapped. He opened his eyes, looking up at England looming over him. Spain’s usually bright green eyes were dark, numbed by pain, and finally,  _ finally,  _ receptive to the lust that was rolling off England in waves. 

His mind was slow, razor-sharp wit replaced with billowing clouds of fog. The fog was made of pain, every injury up until this point dulling his ability to think clearly, As he lay there, immobilized and at England’s mercy, he felt the thrill of anticipation, a lopsided smile falling into place on his lips. If he had control over his arms, he would’ve stroked England’s leg, caressed him through his pants, and then down his boot. But he didn’t. So instead he grinned his usual playful smile, lips twisting in the corners, eyes crinkling. 

“Mi amor, undress for me~” his eyes narrowed, smirk widening, “and why don’t you take these knives from my hands~?” He’d thought about what he was saying before he’d said it, and he’d decided to test the waters, push the boundaries. Spain looked up at him with hooded eyes, eyes dulled by submission. He made his best blissed-out expression, lips parted just slightly and he exhaled, it wasn’t anywhere near as confident as he wanted it to be, it was full of nerves. If England reacted badly then it was likely that it’d be all over.

He hoped he came off as seductive, tempting. To put on a show for his captor and leave here alive, albeit with his pride in tatters. But just because he was used this time around didn’t mean he couldn’t get revenge eventually.

He kept telling himself, he’d get revenge. 

But for now, he should try to enjoy it, when was the last time he got laid? Definitely a long time before now, possibly a few decades, maybe longer. He was a weakening nation in the eyes of others, leaving him in an unfortunate position. If he went along with it perhaps England would be gentle.

“Come on, bebé, do it for me~”

England surveyed the wreck of a man, blood-spattered and still heaving from the blowjob. He was pleased to see him finally settle into his role and figured, well, why not? With only one good limb left, what could he possibly do? The advantage and power over him were too intoxicating. Despite having just cum down his spasming throat, England felt himself reviving and thickening in his pants as he knelt back down to stroke Spain’s face and pluck the dagger from his hand. He watched as the blood began to flow and pool in his palm, his hand curled and clenched up so it looked more like a bloody gnarled talon. 

“I suppose you’ve earned that much at least. We’re not done yet anyway, here we go,” England stood up and grabbed his sword, jerking it straight out of Spain’s shoulder. He cleaned the blood from his blade before resheathing it, more concerned for his tools than the sudden gush from the wound.

Spain screamed as he removed the dagger from his palm, somehow getting louder when the sword left his shoulder. He wailed in agony, adrenaline waning and body aching, he was left panting for breath, unable to move from the floor, didn’t even have the energy to try. He didn’t dare look at his wounds. 

England didn’t let him lie still, grabbing him by the upper arm to yank him upright. He grunted at Spain’s deadweight, the country wasn’t fighting him anymore but also fell completely limp in his grip. 

“Come on, I know you’re not dead yet, get your feet under you, idiot,” England ordered gruffly, dragging him across the hold to the upended barrel where they started. Spain’s legs moved drunkenly, limply, and England had to use both arms to hoist him back over the barrel, flinging him face down across it, several tiny streams of red trickling down the hoops, crisscrossing through the staves from the abrupt motion. 

Spain groaned, looking back at England face pallid and eyes sunken, exhausted from fighting. He closed his eyes and his body sagged against the barrel as his muscles finally relaxed. He knew what was about to happen, but he was grateful to at least be free from his cruel confines. Spain felt oddly calm at that moment, a wave of acceptance cresting over him and he raised his hips invitingly. 

“Come on then, bebé…” His voice was rough, barely audible as he rasped his words. 

“Don’t tell me what to do, filthy cur. I’ll decide when you get it,” England smacked his ass with an open palm, cupping his hand to make the impact shudder across his whole backside. He should simply be grateful he wasn’t using the scabbard to strike him anymore. As Spain whimpered and squirmed and bled out, England pulled a pewter mug from his belt and slammed its base against the bung of the barrel, amber rum spouting out in a stream that he then caught in his mug. He stood and took a deep swig, carelessly letting the spirits continue to flow in a show of excess and power. He could afford to be wasteful, he’d commandeered all of Spain’s rum when he’d captured him so there was plenty for the voyage. The burn of the spiced rum sat warm in his belly and England felt more generous seeing how helpless Spain truly was now. 

He drained his mug and refilled it, leaning over Spain to spread his ass cheeks apart, holding the mug high over him and tipping it so a stream of rum spilled down his crack, blood flowing down his balls and dick along with the alcohol until it eventually ran clean. His asshole was damaged, torn from the rough treatment of the pommel. Though it had been short, the metal and facets of the jewels were abrasive and unforgiving. England felt the rum going to his head and wondered just how far he could push Spain. 

The alcohol stung, Spain tensing his body in response and his mouth opening in a silent scream, hiccupping pants escaping his lips as he tried to inhale through the pain. He grit his teeth and his head hit the barrel, trying to distract himself with anything he could; the only thing being pain _ somewhere else.  _

His fingertips dug into the barrel, nails breaking on the hardwood container with how hard he was holding on, “Fuck!” He cursed, struggling against England’s weight to escape the pain, but he couldn’t even put pressure on his feet, let alone move. 

He hit his head again, repeatedly connecting his forehead to the barrel surface in an attempt to create a pain worse than the one he was experiencing, or to pass out, whichever came first. He didn’t lift his head from the barrel.

England laughed at his rival, banging his head against the barrel, whimpering like a dog, and once the mug ran empty he leaned closer to lick directly against his hole, lapping up the residual rum there, circling the muscle in languid rotations of his tongue. He didn’t breach him, not yet, just licking and sucking and teasing against the outside, stroking all the many sensitive nerve endings there, even going so far as to press his thumb to Spain’s taint, pressing and rubbing him there as well. 

Spain’s head shot up at the sensation, craning his neck and exposing his throat as he squirmed, what started as quiet whimpers quickly grew into moans. It hurt, it hurt so bad, but at the same time there was a sick pleasure starting to surface, and soon Spain decided it felt more  _ good  _ than bad, pleasurable rather than painful. It made him restless as his hole fluttered and twitched against England’s tongue. 

A litany of curses passed his lips, biting his bottom lip in a futile attempt to stop them, next he resorted to biting his uninjured hand. Trying to refrain from moving his hips.

England smirked, licking straight up his crack and peering over his ass to watch Spain struggle. 

“Little slut likes it, hmm? Let your voice out, Spain,” England murmured, straightening his tongue to a point and then spearing it inside him finally, letting the wet muscle slide in and out several times. He pressed his lips closer, creating a seal and sucking against his hole, pushing his tongue deeper and rolling against his inner walls. He could taste blood, his natural earthy flavor, and a groan from deep in his chest rumbled up against him, sending vibrations through his body. 

Spain moaned lowly in the back of his throat, this time he did move his hips, pressing back into the sensations. His movements were shaky like it was taking all his strength to do it and his voice broke pathetically in his throat as his moan became louder. 

“F--Fuck…” 

He buried his face into the crook of his elbow, finding himself wanting to reach behind him, and grip England’s hair. But he didn’t - not until he sucked against his hole, then he did reach back, knocking his hat askew as he did so, bloody fingers almost lacing into England’s hair.

England pulled away and grabbed Spain by the wrist to hoist the offending arm up, putting pressure on the sword wound. 

“Don’t touch me with your filthy hands, whore!” England slapped his ass hard several times, hitting the same spot until Spain was flinching under his blows. The rum continued to flow from the barrel with low audible glugs, the smell of spirits turning the hold into a haze of alcoholic fumes. England paused his spanking to refill his mug, swallowing some more for himself before taking a swing into his mouth and holding it, leaning back between Spain’s ass to work him open and spit the rum directly inside him. 

Spain wailed in agony as the alcohol caught more open wounds inside him, instantly tensing around England’s tongue and arching his back away from his mouth, he whimpered and cried, and shuddered uncontrollably, letting out a long, drawn-out whine that broke off into a choked noise. 

England released him, licked his lips, and grinned wickedly as he refilled his mug and quickly sucked his first two fingers, slicking them with his own spit. He pushed them into Spain without warning, flexing against the rim until he opened up like a bud, enough that England could pour the rum directly into him. He screamed and writhed and rattled over the barrel and the flow went everywhere, half of it making inside him, half of it soaking down his crack, a sloppy wet mess. England felt even more powerful reducing him to this state, knowing his men could hear him just a few yards above deck, that he was ruining Spain’s reputation at the same time he forced him to drink through his torn ass. 

“So thirsty, aren’t you wench? Don’t worry, you can have some of your rum back,” England began to laugh madly, refilling the mug a third time to dump it over him, into him, again.

Spain was left gasping, somewhere in his mind, he realized his skin felt warm, his insides almost burning thanks to the open wounds and alcohol being directly applied to his guts. Overwhelmed by the sudden rush of drunkenness, his head spun, vision swimming and mind unable to focus on anything but the growing warmth inside him. His face felt hot, cheeks burning, and turning ruddy, what little blood he did have left flooding into his cheeks. The rest of his face was still sickly grey, lips pale and blue-tinged in the corners. His eyes felt heavy. His body felt warm, growing warmer. Despite feeling freezing just moments earlier. 

He stopped his struggling, his body falling slack against the barrel. He’d been angry before, being used and abused, despite his compliance, but now he felt furious. 

“Bastard,” he slurred, “bastard!”

“That’s not right Spain, beg for me. Let me hear your voice…” England began jabbing his fingers in and out, fucking his hole open. He was almost ready… 

“Never, bastard!” Spain shouted, repeating the curse over and over again.  _ “You  _ beg  _ me _ , bastard!”

England tsked at him, annoyed. 

“I thought we had an understanding, Spain,” England grabbed him by the balls and twisted, crushing the sensitive sac in his hand. The scream he let out was glorious, scrabbling over the barrel and England grinned and squeezed harder as he heard Spain retching and vomiting down the curved side of the wood. He let up to give him a chance to respond. 

“Well, Spain? How’s that? I’ll make it easier for you. Just say one word - please.” 

Spain coughed and sputtered, grinding out the word faster than he wanted to ever admit. “Please.” 

“Louder, love.”

Spain growled, glaring at him over his shoulder. “Please…!”

“So your men can hear you,” England corrected, fondling his bruised balls in warning. 

He ducked his head and shouted as loud as his ragged body could manage, “ _ Please _ !”

England nodded in smug approval, letting go of his balls to spread him open, and without any other warning, he shoved his hard dick inside in an abrupt rush, stretching him even wider, tearing him even more, still deliciously hot and wet thanks to the rum. England groaned and panted as he felt Spain clench around him, veins pulsing against him, listening to the strangled sounds leaking from his throat. He leaned over Spain, laying on top of him to breathe against his ear, one hand at his hip to hold him down, another tangled into the hair at his nape, pulling him back into an unnatural arch. 

“Ahh, fuck, Spain… You’re so tight… Even after all that… What a natural…” England puffed in his ear in between thrusts, working his hips against him and plunging deep. If he hadn’t already cum once he might have spilled his load right there, but working toward his second peak meant he had more stamina. Spain would get to feel all of it, the thought made him swivel his hips faster, giving up taunting to just pant and focus on the feeling of rape, of domination, of power over another nation. An invasion in the most individual and personal sense. 

Spain screamed louder than he had throughout the entire ordeal, squirming and struggling against England, getting a sudden second wind. He clenched his fists, rapidly and suddenly moving his head back and headbutting England, pain washing over him from the back of his skull. But he maintained his position as England pulled his hair tighter in response, panting and writhing as he looked at England through the corner of his eyes. 

He felt dizzy, overcome by the sensations invading his senses, the blood loss, the threat of hypothermia, the rum humming through his veins, all of it left him struggling to stay conscious, he wanted to succumb so bad… 

England redoubled his pace in punishment, snarling animalistically in his ear. He had no more words, just violence, even when a part of him still relished the struggle - loved how even now his rival wasn’t completely broken. A worthy opponent, something precious he could take his time dismantling. His cock twitched at the thought, pace speeding up even more - he came by it honestly, there was nothing he loved more than grinding another nation into submission. Spain’s pained noises, the throbbing in his nose from the headbutt, the swirl of rum hitting his brain, all of it combined and turned the moment surreal, strung out on the high of supremacy. 

Spain went slack against the barrel, whole body sagging and muscles going loose, his mouth hung open uselessly and eyes closed. The stimulation was too much, he couldn’t cope any longer. He lost consciousness as England’s pace remained unrelenting, the only thing keeping his head from hitting the barrel was England’s grasp on his hair. 

England felt Spain’s departure, going limp, head lolling heavy in his grip, but just because he’d passed out didn’t mean England would show any mercy. If anything, fainting just made the scene even more all-consuming - he’d fucked his rival into unconsciousness, if that wasn’t raw power then what else was? England continued to rape him, hips pummeling him until finally, he felt his orgasm surging up through him like a white-crested wave, slamming deep as he pumped it into Spain’s ass. 

“Ah, shiiit… Spain, you bastard… Fuck,” England moaned, letting his head go and thunk against the wood, sagging on top of him, his release so intense he needed a minute to recover. As his cock went limp England finally took a deep breath and stood up again, pulling himself out and cleaning his blood-streaked dick with a handkerchief before tucking himself away. He looked over Spain, limp and bloody across the barrel, and smirked with satisfaction. 

“It’s a nice look for you, Spain. Lucky thing you’re immortal,” England gave a small evil chuckle, “For now at least…” 

The dredges of the rum barrel dribbled slowly down the side of the barrel, the entire keg had been emptied in the time it took him to force Spain into submission, and when England shoved his body off the barrel into a boneless heap he splashed against the wood, completely drenched in liquor. England gave him a final unnecessarily hard kick to flip him onto his back before turning to collect Spain’s sword and resheath it before climbing the ladder. He ordered his men to drag him and the rest of the prisoners into the brig, let them see the condition of their fallen captain. 

\----

The first thing Spain felt was pain. Searing pain. Throbbing pain. White. Hot. Pain. Everything hurt unbelievably. He grimaced, listening to hushed voices, recognizing them as his language, his men.

They were alive.

He exhaled, finally opening his eyes to see those of his first mate.

“Mateo—”

The first mate cut him off by waggling his finger at Spain. He fell silent.

**“Don’t speak.”** He said in his native Murcian dialect. It was then that Spain knew it was bad. Mateo rarely used his native tongue, opting to speak in the more openly used Castilian on his vessel. He only ever slipped into his South-Eastern dialect when he was anxious or upset.

He pinched his lips in a tight line as he observed his first mate, He leaned over him, hands working with a tremble to wrap a scant amount of bandage around his hand.  **“I disinfected your wounds while you were unconscious. Thought it would make it easier.”**

He spoke in Castilian in return, feeling his eyes sting as he realized how comforting it was to hear anything other than  _ English.  _ **“With what?”**

**“Rum.”**

With the mention of the alcohol he shuddered, stomach rolling, he wasn’t going to be able to see rum the same way ever again. He still had the spins even then. 

**“Cap’n, what happened…?”** Mateo dared to ask, finally running out of the crude excuse of a bandage.

Spain remained silent, looking up at his first mate and blinking away tears. “I lost…” He mumbled in English, bringing his hands up to palm at his eyes, only to regret the action in every sense of the word  _ regret. _

Mateo was silent for a while, before speaking again.  **“There’s, uhm, one place I didn’t treat.”**

Spain looked at Mateo in confusion, realizing several seconds too late what Mateo meant; he grimaced, his ass aching, stinging, burning. He closed his eyes, feeling tears finally spilling over. He’d lost.

**“Cap’n, cap’n, hey,”** Mateo’s hands were on his face quicker than he’d ever seen the usually laid back first mate, swiping away the tears with his thumbs.

**“I didn’t want you to see me cry.”**

**“We have been thick as thieves for the last decade, I’ve seen you cry before.”** Spain looked up at his crewmate, his friend, seeing Mateo was faring no better with wet eyes. Mateo grinned, oddly cheerful given how he was almost in tears.  **“We will be okay, won’t we?”**

**“We will,”** Spain said, finding himself grinning too, the action washing him with exhaustion, like gentle waves on the beach, he felt his body growing weaker.

**“Rest,”** Mateo demanded softly, swaddling Spain in what was left of his captain’s coat after sneaking it into the brig with him, stuffed down his pants.

Spain succumbed to the exhaustion that reached his very core, eyes slipping shut and breathing falling even as he sank under. 

\----

England paced restlessly in his quarters, his tray of meat, grapes, bread, and cheese, laid untouched on his table, a stack of letters unopened and unanswered. He couldn’t get Spain out of his mind. The way he’d fought back even at the very bitter end, the way his submission was a tension, not a given, and it made him obsess over the ways to personally stamp out that rebellious nature. 

He couldn’t relax, couldn’t focus, and he’d snapped at his men unnecessarily throughout the night - giving orders more sharply than usual. He chalked it up to the irritating puncture wound on his thigh, the chaffing of the bandage there, and the slight tweak of pain he experienced with every step on that leg. But deep down he knew it was because Spain still hadn’t submitted, not wholly. 

He held him as a prisoner, out on the open ocean without an escape. He had his men as leverage, had already established dominance over him - made them watch him die once, listen to his screams and pleasured moans, his begging to be taken… And yet when he’d dumped Spain’s nerveless body in the brig with them they had nothing but care and respect for their pathetic leader. How they could still follow him made him want to spit. 

He couldn’t let it go. Why should Spain have the comfort of their companionship? With that thought in mind, England made a decision and strode out of the cabin into the star-flung night, by now the storm had passed, and the deck was still moist from rainwater, a chill to the air thanks to the cold front and squall line that’d beaten their ship just a few hours earlier. He headed toward the hold where the brig lay deep in the damp bottom of the ship. 

He wasn’t done yet. 


	2. No Torture Like Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England is trumped by a mortal. Spain pays the price.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Narroch: Y’all, these Hetalia fics just keep taking off and gaining a life of their own, like wtf, is it something in the water? Anyway, this PWP has leveled up and evolved into a story with a timeline, OC filling a larger role, and a sexually-charged plot. If that’s not what you’re here for just stick to chapter one and enjoy what’s on the tin. But if that sounds like a good time, strap in suckas because the document where we’re working on this just went over 50K. XD

Mateo ran his fingers through Spain’s blood-matted hair as his captain slept. He frequently found himself getting lost in thought, remembering the sounds of Spain’s cries and moans seeping up from below the deck, knowing it’d hurt every one of them, seeing their captain ravaged to protect them. The only solace was that Spain was immortal, he could take anything that was thrown at him. But that didn’t help them feel at ease. He shouldn’t have to take everything that was thrown his way. 

Mateo remembered the first time he’d seen Spain’s immortality up close, they’d been drunk, in a tavern situated in a bay and Spain had said  _ “bet I can stab myself and not die.”  _ Being the arrogant fool he’d been, he’d bet his life on Spain losing his. Impaled on a knife, he paraded around the tavern with the sharp protrusion in his stomach, ten minutes and he wasn’t dead, a further hour he’d only grown drunker. 

_ “Hey, join my crew,”  _ he’d said.  _ “Give me your life.” _

He’d honestly felt like they’d be the strongest pirates on the ocean. 

Now he looked at Spain’s broken body, feeling a quiet rage lick at his veins, being disrupted every time his breathing became uneven. While the other men had distanced themselves to avoid crowding their captain, he knew they were equally concerned, equally scared. Sure, Spain couldn’t die, or more accurately didn’t stay dead, but seeing him so beat up and hurt wasn’t easy for any of them. They were less in numbers than England’s crew, but they had a bond. Built on strong foundations of mutual respect and trust. They loved Spain because he’d given them a purpose. 

He heard England’s boots before he saw him. Looking up to the stairs of the brig to see his face come into view, unruffled by Spain’s prone body. 

Mateo instantly took a defensive stance, rising to his full height and standing in front of Spain. 

It was time to return a favor. 

England stepped heavily down the stairs and smiled lazily when he saw the first mate standing over Spain’s unconscious form. Of course, his dogs were well-trained, despite the weakness he’d shown in front of them, they’d bite him given the opportunity. He strode closer, stood right before the bars, both of them standing and naturally leaning with the waves as the ship rocked and creaked all around them.

“Let me guess, you’re not just going to hand him over easily, are you?” England sneered, arrogance and disdain dripping from his words. He felt himself above humans, particularly those from other nations. 

Mateo remained silent, he didn’t have a good grasp on English as Spain did. He crossed his arms over his broad chest and scowled. He tilted his head. 

“¡Hijo de puta!” He spat, snarling at England. 

The country scoffed. Even he recognized what that meant. He pointed at Spain on the ground, then himself, and then made a scooping motion.  _ I’m taking him,  _ the universal body language said. 

He shook his head. 

“Duel,” Mateo said in English, making a gun motion with his forefinger and middle finger, flicking his thumb like the hammer being pulled back. 

England smiled languidly, amused by the spunk this mortal possessed.

“A duel, eh? Why not… Might as well do something to pass the time before this sod wakes up again. Guards! Bring this prisoner and my dueling pistols!” England shouted up the stairs. He turned back to look closer at the man. He was tall, a strong-built body, dark brown hair that framed his tan face, and mahogany eyes. He seemed on an even keel for a human and England smirked imagining what Spain would do when he woke up and found out his first mate had been killed by him. Killed because of his devotion to him. It might even teach the fool a lesson. 

Four of England’s men stomped down the stairs at his command, their rifles at the ready as they shouted at the prisoners to back up against the wall, all of them but Mateo. Once he was standing alone they opened the door and two guards grabbed him by his arms, hustling him brusquely out of the cell and up the stairs. The other two entered after he was extracted, gathering Spain up from the floor before the others could react and slamming the door behind them. 

“Put him in my quarters - ah, and be sure to lay down a sheet first! He’s absolutely filthy!” England shouted up after them as they carried the unconscious country away. 

Mateo shrugged off the two men, walking up the stairs with them close on his heels, the only word he picked up on was  _ filthy _ , something he didn’t want used to describe his captain. Once on the deck, he turned to them, motioning for the gun. 

“Pistol. Ahora.” 

The men shoved him, yelling in unintelligible English, and moved him to the end of the deck. The other two guards emerged from the hold carrying Spain and shuffled away toward the captain’s quarters. Finally, England himself emerged, stepping slowly and stoically from beneath the deck, the bob of his feathers and finery even more apparent in the breeze. He moved slowly, lazily, assuredly, and when one of the guards reemerged from his quarters carrying a gilded, wooden box he waved him off, motioning to Mateo.

“Let him have his pick first, not that it matters,” England chuckled dismissively. Both dueling pistols were loaded with a single bullet, a twin set with pearl enameled handles and smooth polished wood with intricately hammered metal detailing work in the barrel. They were deadly works of art. 

Mateo looked at the guns, noticing one of them was slightly different, with a damaged handle, hair-line cracked wood. They’d seen use before now. He picked them both up, weighing them in his hands and looking between them. They were decent guns, but the one in his left hand had a slightly heavier barrel, which meant less recoil and more accurate discharge. He put the other down, holding the gun in his right hand. 

“Ready,” he said.

England grabbed the other pistol when presented to him, striding closer to the prisoner until they met in the middle. The man was taller than him, but his boots and hat made up the difference and England still managed to look down his nose at the mortal man. 

“What’s your name, peasant?” England asked, rolling his eyes when the man just frowned at him. He tried again. “Nombre?” 

“Mateo.” He frowned, brows almost meeting in the middle. 

“You know how to duel? Duelo?” England asked, unconvinced.

Mateo rolled his eyes, looking displeased as he nodded. 

England gave a dismissive nod. He could have yawned in the man’s face but even that would be too obvious. He turned on his heel, yelled at his men to act as his second, and begin counting. He felt Mateo’s back touch his and the countdown began. 

“Ten! Nine! Eight!” They both took corresponding steps, widening the gap between them. “Seven! Six! Five!” England actually  _ did  _ yawn now. Only a few seconds left until the gnat was swatted away. “Four! Three! Two!  _ One! _ ”

England spun around on the spot and caught the briefest glance of the man before letting his instincts guide his gun and he pulled the trigger, fully certain of his victory. 

Mateo listened to the countdown, counting with them in Spanish under his breath as he took his steps away from England. 

_ Uno. _

At the number, he was spinning on the balls of his feet, holding the gun at shoulder height and firing, only looking where he’d aimed after he’d pulled the trigger. He knew from prior experience, shoulder height for him was always clavicle or above for most of his opponents, all he had to do was get the turn right. 

He’d hit him somewhere in the middle, watching with wide eyes as the bullet penetrated his throat. 

England staggered and croaked as the bullet struck him, blinking rapidly as unexpected death began it’s tightening grip up his brainstem, the familiar feeling of falling into darkness, blood leaving him faster than he could replenish it… Damn, it hurt getting killed like that. The last thing England felt as he toppled backward onto the deck was a burning annoyance that a mortal had got the best of him. 

Mateo watched on as England hit the deck. He knew he was good at sharpshooting, he’d grown up around duels and quickly learned with rubber pellets how to conduct himself properly. He approached the man with the box, returning his pistol to its place respectfully, and walked towards the captain’s quarters to collect Spain. He ignored the shouting and booing and jeering from the Englishmen.

England himself was fast to recover. The strength of his people, of his empire, coursed through him and sped his healing to the point of being supernatural. England felt life return to him, the brain first, then the rest of his wounds slowly stitching together after consciousness - he always hated that little detail, why not heal the brain last? He ignored the pain, groaned, and sat up, coughing into his hand until he hacked the slug out, still bloody and warm. He flung it away in anger. 

As he struggled back up to his feet, still slightly off-balance from the rushed revival, England yelled at his men to stop him, seize him, and before he’d reached the door of the cabin they had mobbed him and had him clapped in irons within a minute. 

England strode over to him, rubbing his throat distractedly, watching as the Spaniard was forced to his knees. His cravat was ruined, tattered, and bloody; the gold brooch pinning it in place was also long gone. His valuable possessions being destroyed annoyed him more than the death and he slapped the prisoner hard across the face once he was in range. 

“Throw this mongrel back into the brig! No food or water for those Spanish dogs!” England snarled loudly, his men giving up a cheer as they moved to follow his orders. They kicked and punched and hustled Mateo back down the hold like the pack of bullies that they were and England turned his sights on his cabin. The loyalty of Spain’s men would be his undoing, he was going to be the one to take the brunt of England’s bad mood now. He would make sure Mateo knew that. 

\----

Spain lay on the bed, curled on his side on a sheet to protect the expensive and exotic fabrics. He groaned softly, starting to wake up. For a moment he thought he was on his ship, in the security of his cabin. But as his eyes came into focus he realized he was wrong. Where was he?

The further realization hit him like lead, England’s ship. Then this must be…

He shot into a sitting position, moaning in pain as it jostled his wounds, looking around. Everything smelled like England, he saw his Alfanje in the corner, wondering if he’d have the time to reach it... but then he began to wonder,  _ why _ was he in England’s quarters? The last thing he remembered was Mateo…

Was he okay? 

England strode in at that moment, a stormcloud brewing across his face, and he grinned menacingly when he noticed Spain was awake. 

“Oh, good timing. I was wondering when your economy would kick in. You pillage all that gold in the New World but can’t even manage a budget. Pathetic.” England moved to the tray of food on his desk, suddenly he had his appetite again - feeling ravenous was an after effect of defying death. He ignored Spain as he sat heavily in his velvet plush chair, cutting cheese and meat with the same dagger he’d stabbed him with earlier, and stacked both slices on a thick hunk of bread. He took a large, careless bite as he undid his mutilated cravat. 

“You’ll never guess what happened while you were out,” England said gruffly, his mouth full of food. 

Spain watched him eating, his stare holding more intensity than he cared to admit. How many times had he died in just one day? How close he’d been to death when he  _ hadn’t _ died? The physical exertion… he was starving... His stomach grumbled in disapproval and he looked away quickly. 

He only looked back when he heard England talk to him. “What?” He asked. 

“One of your men was -” England paused to take another large bite, clearly relishing the mouthful, “ _ distraught  _ when I came for you, challenged me to a duel.” England swallowed heavily, giving a sigh of pleasure. He glanced over at Spain to gauge his reaction. “What was his name again… Matto?”

Spain’s blood ran cold, he knew exactly who England was talking about, even if he did get the name wrong. “Mateo.” He frowned, suddenly his hunger was gone, replaced with rolling anxiety and trembling fear. He knew Mateo was a steady aim, the steadiest hand in his crew… But England was, well, England. 

England continued to chew thoughtfully, eyeing Spain, noting his slow recovery. 

“He put up such a fight, too. But, as you know, there’s only one winner in a duel,” England tossed the remains of his sandwich on the tray and smirked at Spain, leaning back in his chair to watch. 

Spain was moving before he even realized he was doing so, staggering across the room towards England. His legs shook and trembled, but his face was that of fury. Knowing that Mateo could’ve won, but against an immortal, there wasn’t much he could do. England would’ve probably revived and pushed him overboard. 

“You bastardo!” His bandaged hand reached forward for England’s throat, fingers closing around his windpipe and clenching his fist. Despite his weakened state, he could’ve easily ripped out his trachea. 

England wasn’t having any of it and grabbed Spain harshly by his nipple, twisting the tender bud of flesh like trying to unscrew a cork. 

“You still think you can challenge me, Spain? When will you get it through your thick skull - you lost!” England shouted, eyes flashing dangerously as he watched Spain cringe inward and sink to the floor. The pain in his chest as well as all his other injuries catching up with him. England sighed, felt a wave of exhaustion hit him. Even for him, it had been a long day. He just wanted to eat, get off, and sleep. Still, while he had him in that position, might as well get his needs met.

England released his nipple to tousle his hand in Spain’s wavy hair, pushing his head closer to his crotch. With his other hand, he started to unlace his pants. 

“Spain, you’ll make it up to me, won’t you?” England drew his turgid length out, letting the honeyed tip drag across Spain’s cheek. 

Spain was cruelly reminded of a similar situation in the hold, his second thought being that England had the lives of his men in his hands. He couldn’t risk anyone else losing their life. 

Spain opened his mouth, tongue coming to lick at the head of England’s cock. He felt the all too familiar sting of tears in his eyes, threatening to fall. 

What a tyrant…

England sighed again, spreading his legs and settling deeper in the chair. While Spain worked him over he picked up his dagger and hacked off another meat, cheese, bread stack and began to eat carelessly. He chewed and swallowed, letting out a small moan as Spain stroked a particularly lush spot. He took another bite before starting up conversationally.

“You’re good at this, Spain. Better than someone with no experience. Who else have you been sucking? Your first mate?” England asked, crumbs falling into Spain’s brown hair. 

Spain’s blood boiled at the insinuation, oh how he’d love to bite him. If he didn’t have the lives of his men firmly in his hands, he would’ve bitten with enough force to have him bleed out within minutes - have his dick thrown from the ship and rob him of his power. 

But instead, he took him down, tongue working the underside of his shaft, he moved slowly to avoid his gag reflex, swallowing around England to prevent it from happening. But the mind games were working, he couldn’t stop thinking about Mateo, about where he could be. Bleeding out in the brig? Beneath the briny deep? 

His tears escaped his eyes, trekking well-worn tracks down his face, he scrunched his eyes shut, letting out a hiccuping sob around his dick.

England chuckled lowly, grateful to see Spain fall apart like this. He felt his sour mood lightening, turning more possessive than punishing. He couldn’t help but be pathetic, crying there with England’s dick in his mouth, still sucking him like his life depended on it. Well, the lives of his men certainly did. England let his fingers card through Spain’s hair, pulling absently at the tangles he encountered. 

“Good boy… This is a nice look for you, Spain,” England breathed heavily. He took a final bite and finished his sandwich, taking Spain’s bowed head in both hands and yanking him along to set a faster pace that he wanted. A rapid rhythm that could get him off.

Spain let his jaw fall slack, now too far in his upset to do anything else. His sole purpose was to keep the rest of his men alive at this moment in time, and he let England have his way with his mouth. 

The surrender on his face was so satisfying, finally submitting, and England felt the pleasurable heat spiraling through his belly, concentrating to a point as he closed his eyes and wordlessly came while deep down Spain’s throat. It wasn’t as intense as his first two had been, a pleasant ripple to end the day that ushered in all the exhaustion he’d held at bay. England pushed him back and tucked himself away, pleased that Spain continued to sit slumped and defeated on the floor between his knees. 

“Good boy,” England found himself repeating. He felt a rare and ephemeral tenderness for his old rival at that moment, still enjoying the haze of a hassle-free orgasm, and without really thinking too much about it, he constructed another sandwich and wordlessly passed it down and held it before Spain’s face. He’d earned that much at least. 

Spain looked at the sandwich before turning his nose up at it. 

“Do you really think I’m in the mood to eat anything right now? After what you’ve done.” He sniffled, wiping his eyes on his arm. “You’re a monster.” 

The soft spot instantly hardened again and England glared at him. 

“You certainly had no problem eating my dick, you ungrateful dog,” England muttered, dropping the food to the floor. Right at that moment, an audible gurgle creaked from Spain’s belly and England smirked knowing how ravenous revival made a country. 

“Going hungry, that’s for your men’s sake too, right?” England taunted.

The words cruelly reminded Spain of the position he found himself in, if he didn’t eat then his men would starve too, be punished for his wrongdoing. He reluctantly picked up the item of food, taking the tiniest of bites. It killed him to say it, but he promised himself to put on a show for the captain, so he bowed his head and looked down.

“Thank you for the food.” 

England slapped the bread out of his grasp, eyes narrowed. 

“Did I say you could use your hands? Eat it off the floor,” England murmured, sitting back to watch, popping a red grape into his mouth. 

Spain grimaced, watching the bread fly across the room and hit the floor again, he followed it on his hands and knees, prostrating himself as he lowered his head enough to pick up the morsel of food with his teeth. 

“That’s better. Now, get back on the bed before I change my mind,” England commanded. He finally began to strip, going slowly, the many layers and complicated fiddly buttons made it a process. Even then he didn’t strip down completely, still wore a loose white shirt and slightly tighter trousers which gave him a sense of decency, something that wasn’t afforded to Spain. 

Spain crawled along the floor, moving awkwardly with a weakness to his arms and a lopsided sway to his hips, unable to stand until he had something to lean on. He crossed the room, reaching the bed and hoisting himself up. Sitting on the edge, he waited for further instruction, watching England in his new state of undress with exhaustion-etched features. 

“Come on, scoot up,” England muttered, pushing him to make room on the bed. He didn’t give Spain a chance and shoved him to his back and rolled him to face the wall, spooning in behind him and snaking his arms around him to cinch them closer together. With his chin tucked over Spain’s shoulder he could feel every tiny tremble, hear the way he held his breath, rigid and uncomfortable in his arms. He bet he could change that, one final thing to take from Spain. 

England’s hands trailed down to Spain’s front, lingering on his chest, drifting lower to hover pointedly over his limp cock before cupping him with more gentleness than he’d shown in any previous interaction. 

“You still haven’t cum yet, have you Spain?” 

Somehow, if it was even possible, Spain began to tremble more, his thighs shaking as he kicked his legs weakly, his lips parted and he gasped at the sudden gentle touch on his cock, head falling forward to rest his chin on his chest as he closed his eyes, brow furrowed and lips pressed into a tight line. He shook his head in response to England’s question. Shaking his head no to the miserable situation. 

England sighed in Spain's ear and delicately gripped him as he got the flaccid length into the right position, then beginning to pump him with firm, steady strokes. 

“I’ve got you, it’s okay,” England lied, he barely heard what he was saying, his hand moved automatically, his eyes hooded, half from lust, half from pure sleepiness. His own cock was at half-mast, satisfied but still interested in the attention he was giving Spain. As he felt Spain’s dick twitch and thicken, he let go just long enough to slip his own out and slide it between Spain’s pert buttocks, penetrating the small space between his thighs. Once in place to rut against him, England went back to palming Spain, jerking him as if handling his own tool. 

By now Spain was panting, he struggled to decide what he wanted more, England’s hand on his cock, or England’s cock between his thighs, however, a conscious decision was robbed from him as his hips first bucked into England’s hand, then in the same movement snapped back to feel his cock. 

He moaned softly, rolling his hips as he craned his head back to rest on England’s shoulder exposing his throat in the process, his hands twitched, not knowing what to do with them. 

England felt a wry smile twist against Spain’s neck as the country responded. Even after everything he put him through, the fact he could still force him to the opposite end of the spectrum was yet another powertrip. 

“Oh, you’re feeling it now, huh? Slut... You’re perfect for this.” England’s pace increased, now more determined to get Spain to cum before he’d leave him alone. His other hand wormed its way beneath Spain to reach his front as well, rolling the flat of his palm in wide round circles over the tip of his glans while still pumping him up and down his shaft. His palm was quickly greased with precum, slicking and sliding around the tip even more smoothly. 

Spain felt his toes curl, a heat in his stomach that threatened to tear him apart. He was close. Ridiculously close, all things considered. But there was something about England, the way he touched him like this. It made him want to beg, want to submit, even if just for a brief moment, he wanted to succumb to his desires, and come undone. 

“Please,” he breathed huskily, parting his legs more and leaving himself on display for England, cock stood to attention in England’s hand. “I’m close… please…” His words came out jumbled, a testament to how much he needed this. 

“Cum for me, Spain - let yourself go,” England murmured, tightening his fist and beating him even faster.

Spain wailed as he came undone, writhing against England’s chest, rivulets of sweat collected on his brow as he came, whole body convulsing and clammy as a powerful orgasm ripped through him. A string of curses flew past his lips, some in English, some in Spanish, his fingers clenched into the bedding, threatening to tear the protective sheet. 

England milked him through his peak, not stopping until Spain stopped trembling and slumped heavily against the bed. England pulled his hand back, smearing the traces of cum off on Spain’s flank as he went, and tucked his arm around his waist instead, snuggling in to get more comfortable. He heaved a huge yawn and whispered in Spain’s ear. 

“Good boy, good boy…” 

England settled and for the first time they were both still, already sleep lapping at the edges of their shared bed. The moment was barely formed before a loud urgent rapping against the cabin’s door jolted them both into sudden wakefulness. England groaned and grumbled, pulling away from Spain and forcing himself to his feet. There was no rest for a captain…

He pulled his jacket on, slipped his feet into boots, the bare minimum before standing by the door, and then pulling it open. 

“What?” England asked flatly, not hiding his displeasure at being disturbed. 

One of his men stood there panting, quickly exclaiming “It’s the prisoners, sir! There’s trouble in the brig!” 

England’s relaxed mood vanished instantly and he glared back into the room at Spain as if it was his fault. Why was he so much trouble? 

“Come on, you. Let’s go see who we need to flay,” England said it lightly but he was absolutely serious, grabbing his coiled whip from the wall by the door. “They’re your men, your responsibility.” England turned back and grabbed Spain by his forearm when he didn’t move fast enough, dragging them both from the room. 

Spain fumbled behind him, barely having a chance to let his mind register what was going on, he was just drifting off, exhaustion and pleasure carving a way to deep slumber when he was dragged from the bed. He walked with England, several paces behind him and with a heavy limp on the foot that he was shot in. It was healing, albeit very slowly. 

It was humiliating walking across the deck naked, even more so at the fact his men were about to see him, wrapped in bandages but as naked and as exposed as anything. 

They traversed rope ladders and creaking wooden stairs to the dankest depths of the ship, hearing the men shouting and chanting in Spanish long before the iron grated box came into view. Mateo’s thick, muscled arm was squeezed between the bars and wrapped around the neck of a guard, holding him there with his toes barely brushing the ground, nearly choking the life out of him as his legs shook and jerked. England didn’t waste a second, grabbing Spain from behind him and flinging him out in front, sprawled naked to the ground in front of his men. 

England drew his flintlock and pulled back the hammer with an audible click. 

“Let him go unless you want to be coated in his brains!” England gestured aggressively at Spain with the gun, actually hitting him in the head with it once.

Spain grunted as he was thrown to the floor, looking up to see Mateo, and instantly felt a rush of relief. However, it was quickly replaced by rage, and as England hit him with the gun, he snarled. How dare he.

How _ dare _ he. 

He swore under his breath, cursed England to hell a little bit louder.

**“Cap’n!”**

Spain had to end this, breaking into his native Castilian.  **“Put him down, Mateo!”**

Mateo’s hold on the man loosened, his arm remaining around his neck but no longer squeezing. 

**“Mateo…”** Spain warned.  **“Let him go.”**

Mateo did as he was told, but not before telling the man, “Me cago en tu puta madre.” He dropped him. 

Spain gave Mateo a  _ look.  _ One he knew England would be curious about. 

“Bloody finally!” England proclaimed loudly, exasperated by both the nation and his crew. Between the two of them, they were indomitable and it was honestly wearing England out. He just wanted to sleep at this point. He barely looked at the recovered guard, nodding at him vaguely, “You’re dismissed, go get some water.” The man scurried past, rubbing at his neck. 

“It’s about time your men learn some discipline. And you’re going to be the one to do it. What’s an assault worth on your boat,  _ captain _ ?” England sneered the last word, throwing the cattle whip at Spain, “10 lashes? 20? Should we just string him up and flog him in the middle of the deck at high noon tomorrow and let him die a miserable death of blood loss, dehydration, and exposure? What do you think, Spain? I’m trying to brainstorm here,” England raged, still waving the pistol in Spain’s face.

Spain scoffed, “on my ship people would know their place and there wouldn’t be insubordination either.” 

He took up the whip from where it landed in his lap. 

“Is it really wise to give your rival a weapon?” He stroked along the leather binding, eyes alight with a hint of menace. 

England was at the end of his tether and his hand flew before he could even think, the butt of the pistol cracking solidly against Spain’s face, knocking his back down to the floor. 

“It is really wise to test me, rival?” England glowered. “Get up and whip that man or watch me shoot him instead.” 

He looked at Mateo from his place on the floor. Trying to convey his apology and delay the inevitable. 

**“Just do it,”** Mateo growled.  **“Get it over with.”**

Suddenly the whip felt all the heavier; the weight of responsibility in his hands. 

England looked between them, seeing how the human had accepted his fate and he moved to open the prison cell, pointing the gun right into Mateo’s chest. 

“Out, now,” England snapped, closing and relocking the door once he stepped through. England glanced back and forth before huffing impatiently. “Well? I want to go to sleep. Get it over with.” 

Spain’s lips pursed and he grit his teeth. 

**“I’m sorry.”**

He brought the whip back, his movement severely impaired by his damaged shoulder. He snapped it forward, nearly no force behind his hit. Still, Mateo flinched, not used to such rough treatment by Spain. 

England wanted to tear his hair out. 

“Pathetic!” He shouted, “are you even trying? You must not care about him. Harder or I’ll  _ make _ it harder.”

Spain turned to England and gave him a glare before turning back to Mateo and trying again, this time Mateo winced, but otherwise didn’t move as the whip hit his back without any force. 

“Dammit,” Spain cursed, gripping his shoulder. 

“Absolutely fucking useless. Give me that,” England swiped the whip out of Spain’s slack grip and he let the coiled tip of it lap down his leg before swinging back and hurling his arm forward, the sound of it cutting through the air distinctly different from anything Spain had produced. 

The leather hit Mateo’s back like a crack of lightning, the force strong and slim enough to split flesh and instantly cause him to bleed. The man jerked and cried out uncontrollably, catching himself against the wall with his hands where he braced himself. 

England smiled grimly. “That’s how you do it, idiot. Get it right or we’ll be down here all night. I want at least 5 decent lashes from you. And this one doesn’t count.” England dropped the whip to the ground where it lay limp and lifeless, waiting for a wielder. 

Spain looked at the blood oozing down Mateo’s back, picking the whip up and deciding then to aim for the same spot England did. Hoping with all his might that it would fool England if more blood was drawn. 

He tried his other arm, but he couldn’t get a good grip on the weapon thanks to his injured hand. 

He resorted to using both hands, swinging the whip sideways as opposed to vertically, catching Mateo’s bloody skin and making it worse, jumping at the sound of the whip cracking down on his skin. 

Mateo groaned, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth - by now, Spain’s men had gathered to watch, murmurs spreading like smoke between them. 

“That’s better. Keep count out loud,” England commanded as he stepped back to a post and leaned against it. Anything to move this intolerable process along. 

“T-- Two…” Spain lashed Mateo again, watching as blood splattered against the wall with the horizontal strike. 

Again. 

And again. 

Soon he’d delivered five blows, and upon England’s demand, five more. 

His expression crumpled as he finished the final blow, looking at Mateo’s bloodied back, his hand came up to his mouth to stop himself from losing his composure, and to stop himself from vomiting at the sight of Mateo’s hunched and bloody back, his skin was torn in lattices. He was on the floor now, blood dripping onto the deck and splattered along the wall. 

He wanted to rush to his first mate’s side but wasn’t sure if he could. He looked at England who simply shook his head, lifting off the post and unlocking the cell door. Spain ignored his prompt, kneeling beside Mateo and hissing in a hushed voice. 

**“What were you thinking? Challenging him to a duel, you could’ve died.”**

**“I won though, didn’t I?”** Mateo grinned between labored breaths. 

“Get in the brig!” England demanded, stony cold and with no room for argument. 

**“You… won.”** That’s right, he was still alive, he’d somehow emerged victorious.  **“How?”**

“Throat,” Mateo said in English, smirking at England before moving to stand. He hobbled over to the brig with Spain’s help. Upon entering the cell, they were quickly left alone, the cell locked again, as England left the way he came without another word. Once Spain was alone with his men, they crowded around Mateo in a way they hadn’t when Spain had been injured. They stared at Spain like he was an outsider. There were murmurs of distrust, of desperation, of confusion. 

**“You hurt your own crew,”** one said with a sneer.  **“You’re not our captain.”**

\----

Stomping back up the stairs, heading to his quarters, England felt an undue amount of irritation. It had been a long day and he’d finally gotten Spain where he wanted him after hours of his flavor of persuasion, only to have him thrown back in the brig with that unruly pack. He would have to get rid of them as soon as possible, whether by the gun or the sword or demoralizing them so much they’d desert on their own. England thought that the last option would be the best, foster distrust and disrespect until it festered. Until Spain was left all alone. 

If his men were his strength, they were also his weakness. It was something England didn’t concern himself with. His men were loyal because of what he represented, not who he was. They followed their country, didn’t make small talk with Arthur. And England preferred it that way. Kept everything simpler. But Spain, he knew it would hurt him terribly to be abandoned. 

As England slipped back into his chamber and then his bed, he resolved to taint their bond - starting with that rebellious Mateo. As he drifted off to sleep he vaguely missed the feeling of a sweet and submissive Spain, warm and tousled in his arms. 

He’d get him back here again. Just a matter of time. 

\----

The next time Spain opened his eyes, he noticed his crew members were as far away from him as possible, huddled together for warmth in the far corner on the brig while he lay against the bars. 

Mateo was still asleep, the others guarding him in a borderline overly-protective way. Spain sighed, bringing his legs up to his chest, hugging them close, and resting his chin on his knees. Several eyes were watching him, with varying emotions visible, some along the lines of pity, others were looking at him with an unreadable expression, but one was full of disdain. 

His stomach rolled as the memories of the night before came flooding back to his mind… 

He’d hurt Mateo. 

\----

England allowed himself to sleep in a few extra hours, making up for lost time, and the sun was fully up and shining, clear blue skies and a light clement breeze playing against the sails by the time he emerged from his cabin. He was dressed immaculately from head to toe, a deep emerald green velvet lined captain’s jacket, trimmed with gold and topped with a fresh-pressed cravat, a gleaming blood-red ruby pinned over his throat. Perched atop his head was his outrageously large hat, peacock feathers, and striped turkey tails and ostrich plumes forming a medley of colors and textures - three continents on one wide black brim. 

Dressing himself in his treasures gave him an undeniable sense of power and importance. It was a visual reminder of just who ran half the world, and his men expected it of him, his rivals jealously feared him for it. Both reactions were acceptable. Fear and reverence were two sides of the same coin, flipping easily depending on the situation. He knew how to use that, and looks and attitude were everything. 

England’s mind was distracted as he went about his daily captain duties, checking in with his first mate and giving instructions for the day, consulting with his navigator to plot a course and get their bearings, scanning the horizon for the next bout of helpful weather. It was all dull, typical procedures and England found himself thinking about the prisoners in their brig, about his personal project. 

Besides Spain getting that single heel of bread, none of them had eaten or had anything to drink for the past day and England intended to keep it that way. When his first mate asked about the orders for the prisoners, England smirked evilly. 

“Send them a bucket of half fresh, half bilgewater, and just a splash of rum.” They might not drink at first, but eventually, thirst would drive them mad. The contaminated water would just make them sick, give them the runs and hasten their dehydration and resentment. Deprivation did incredible things to even the most loyal of men. Being treated like animals turned them into such. 

England went about his day, musing to himself all the many ways he could toy with Spain, knowing he was down there at his mercy, functioning on his timeline. He decided to wait a full 24 hours. Let the reality of their situation sink in and watch the fractures form. 

\----

**“Do you think they’re trying to kill us anyway?”** Mateo asked, attracting Spain’s attention. His back was as straight as a board, posture askew in an attempt to alleviate the pain radiating from his back. 

Honestly, Spain wasn’t sure anymore, it would be wholly like England to do such a thing, use him on the promise of leaving his men alone, but scheming a plan that left them all dead in the long run. He looked at the bucket full of all kinds of unmentionable things, then to his crew. 

They were far from happy. 

**“I don’t know…”** Spain rested his cheek on his knees, his wounds were healing, although slower without the support of his men.  **“England is a tyrant, he’s scheming something.”**

**“Now even I could’ve told you that.”**

Spain smiled, looking at his first mate and then at the rest of his crew.  **“I feel like the longer I’m in here, the more they want to kill me.”**

Mateo shrugged,  **“as long as I’m here, they won’t.”**

**“My hero,”** Spain fake swooned, earning a laugh from Mateo in response, a shove against his injured shoulder, and a slap on the back. 

**“We’ll get our revenge; we’ll stick together, I know it.”**

Spain nodded, looking to the ceiling and puffing out a sigh, wondering just how long it would be until England returned to the brig.

\----

Vesper winds whipped the galleon forward, picking up speed as darkness crept like a dark blue beast over the horizon behind them. England stood at the bow and watched the sunset, final embers snuffing, leaving a watercolor wash of lilac gold in the west. Anticipation sat warm and glowing in his chest, patience about to be rewarded. England peered at the western horizon and the moment the last of the sun dipped into the ocean he grinned cruelly to himself and turned on his heel, barking an order for several men to follow him. It was finally time.

The brig was dark, dingy, and smelly as usual. Even worse now that there were a dozen men crammed into the small cage. Spain and Mateo sat together, facing the rest of the group as if separate and the sight tempted a knowing smile to England’s face. The plan was already working. Still, the damnable first mate still seemed resolute in his unwavering loyalty despite being the one whose back was whipped to shreds. Violence wouldn’t work on a man like that, no, he needed a more careful touch. Something more sinful. 

England didn’t wait to exchange pleasantries or explanations. 

“Grab those two pigs, if anyone else moves shoot them.”

The lighter mood ended as soon as they heard England’s voice in the brig. Spain’s head snapping to the side, Mateo cocking his head so as to not open the recent tears on his back. 

They looked at each other with puzzled expressions. Was this a continuation of yesterday’s punishment? They assumed so. 

“Verga dura,” Mateo mumbled to Spain, causing the nation to snicker. 

“¡Verga muy grande!” He exclaimed, stretching his arms wide. 

They decided there and then, that nothing would bring them down. 

England frowned in annoyance. Already things weren’t going as he’d envisioned. He had to separate those two or neither would break. He surveyed the rest of the men and decided they would be much easier to sever. They were already miserable, thirsty, angry, and blamed Spain for their predicament. A bit more discomfort, a bit more humiliation from Spain, and they would never look at him the same again. 

Once on the deck England yelled at his men to tie Mateo up to the mast - only said for Spain’s benefit. He’d already discussed his plan with his men and they knew what was really at play. They all sneered and mocked Mateo, prodding his back, slapping his shoulders, forcing the large man to cringe and shrink. Knowing something malicious that he didn’t. 

England made sure Spain could see Mateo being bullied before he was pushed into England’s cabin with the barrel of a gun to his back. 

“Just some insurance, love. They won’t kill him unless you’re being petulant.” 

Spain was about to bite back, cause some trouble between them. But then he heard England’s words and stopped in his tracks. 

“Then, what do you want?” He stood up straight, his posture that of a captain, head held high and shoulders back. All that was missing was the attire. “Me to suck your cock again? To fuck me? What would you like?” He paused, deciding to test something. “Captain.” He added the title with a sultry tone. 

England laughed, already amused by Spain’s tactics. They were both heading in the same direction it seemed. That would make things easier. 

“It’s what you’re good at, isn’t it? Come on then, let’s get started.” England closed the door behind them, sealing them into his chambers. 

Spain watched him close the door, standing in the middle of the room with his hands clasped in front of him. 

“So, what’s the plan, captain?” He sunk into the bedding, sitting on the sheet left there from the previous time. His fingers traced along the soft fabric, making a show for England. 

“Get your slutty carcass off my bed. I’m not dealing with you until you’ve had a bath - you stink like a brewery’s armpit.” England jerked his thumb over his shoulder to point out the sitz tub in the corner of the room, filled with steaming water and frothy white bubbles. It was a metal basin shaped like a deeply-troughed chair, the edges rounded and smoothed and just enough room for a single person to sit and submerge their hips.

Spain wondered for a moment if he was being serious, before deciding not to risk it, biting his lip as he stood and made his way over to the tub. His fingers traced over the side, feeling the warmth of the water and realizing something… 

“A bath will hurt my wounds.” 

“Probably,” England shrugged at him, unfazed. “You’re a nation, suck it up. If you were a better leader you would have already healed by now so it’s really your fault you’re in this predicament. Idiot.” Despite looking forward to their encounter all day, meticulously planning it out, England still found himself feeling grouchy and snapping at Spain. He was still just too chipper, even now. 

Spain lifted his injured foot, hissing when it was submerged in the hot water and bubbles, he let out a noise half way between a moan and a whimper as he lifted his other leg, taking a seat on the ledge. His arms shook as he lowered himself, finally sitting in the warm water. He was thankful his shoulders remained out of the water. 

He tried not to relax, but the warmth instantly cocooned his sore and aching muscles, all of his shivering and trembling from the days before leaving knots in his muscles. He exhaled, looking down at his battered body as the water went dark with dirt and crusted blood. Now his legs were becoming cleaner he could see the bruising, the welts, the gunshot wound in startling detail, enhanced by the water lapping at his body. While the gunshot wound had closed to nothing more than an indentation in his skin, it was still an open wound, it made his stomach roll and he looked at England with renewed fire in his eyes. 

“Don’t glare at me like that. Ingrate,” England growled. “You’re the only one getting special treatment.” He stepped closer, dropping his jacket over a chair, rolling up his sleeves and reaching into the sudsy water to grab Spain’s ankle and yank it up, sliding the rest of him further down into the water, both legs sprawled over the edge of the tiny tub. Without waiting for permission England snatched a sea sponge from beside the tub and began furiously scrubbing down one leg and then the other, having no mercy around the gun wound and keeping up the same pressure even over the puncture. 

Spain cried out in pain, loud enough to be heard on deck, as his shoulders were submerged, whimpering and whining as England washed his legs, squirming from his touch. 

“Please, stop,” he rasped, breathless, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth to fight back the pain. “I’ll do anything.” His chest heaved, with every breath his nipples peaked above the water for how heavily he was breathing.

England let him go, tossing the sea sponge down into the water with him, staring haughtily down his nose. 

“Clean yourself. Thoroughly,” England said, not backing up, standing right there looming over him overseeing how well he complied. 

Spain nodded, massaging his aching body with the sea sponge, He focused on the back of his neck, down his back, feeling the dried dirt and blood come loose and flake off as he did so. Gently he moved onto his shoulders, taking his time to douse and run water over the throbbing limbs. 

He sighed, his body sagging in the water when he’d finished cleaning his torso, closing his eyes and leaning back against the edge of the tub. Sinking in slightly deeper than intended. It felt so good to finally relax his aching body. Even if he originally didn’t want to. He felt his eyes growing heavy. 

England grabbed the sea sponge from Spain’s lax grip, bending over him to begin washing savagely between his legs, using far too much pressure, scraping the skin raw. As Spain struggled against the rough grain of the sponge and cried out, England had to grab him by the neck with his free hand to keep him still and in the water. But even then he fought, water and bubbles slopping down the sides, flinging his bath everywhere. When England dipped lower, began scrubbing against his crack and sore hole Spain went long and rigid with pain, voice cracking from the treatment and England muttered in the ensuing stunned silence.

“I said thoroughly, didn’t I?” He dragged Spain forward by his neck, reaching over top of him to swipe the sponge in large circles over his back, reaching the areas Spain couldn’t. 

The cruel wake up from the relaxing moment just seconds earlier left him shivering again, the pain between his legs almost unbearable, his hole left sore, cock left somewhere between half-hard from the touch and flaccid from the pain. He was thankful the dirty water hid it well. He shuffled on the seat, trying to seek comfort. 

He found none. 

“I’m sorry…” He whined. 

England felt the tight knot of irritation loosen just slightly at those meek words. If only he’d stay this timid all the time. He sighed and let off the sponge, letting it fall back into the water. 

“It’s fine... Don’t be so difficult next time. Here, let’s do something different,” England conceded, pulling a long silk scarf from his back pocket. Before Spain had a chance to figure out what he was doing England drew the cloth around his head, covering his eyes completely and tying it into a tight knot at the back. 

Spain gasped, reaching up to touch the silk instinctively before pausing, just centimeters away from it. He hadn’t been told to touch it. He lowered his hands again, looking to where England was and noting he couldn’t see anything at all. His heart picked up the pace, he found himself feeling eager and nervous to find out what would happen next. 

Although he had a feeling he knew what was coming. 

Seeing the way Spain’s hands dropped, not questioning the blindfold, made England’s chest swell just a bit. Turns out the dog  _ could  _ be trained. He knelt on the wet floor, let his hand slide down Spain’s neck, chest, trailing lower until it disappeared under the water, fingers sliding down past his chode, catching the fattie between his finger and thumb, not gripping it but using his fingers to sweep at the space behind his balls, massaging his taint, around the area where his balls connected to his body, fingering the loose skin there, finding the tiny hidden canals where his balls had descended from however many centuries ago. Using a single finger to find each hole, he pressed gently up inside, felt the delicate chords of nerves when he’d sank in up to his second knuckle, and just barely had to wriggle the tips of his fingers to strum at them. 

Spain groaned, and writhed, his body jolting like he was hit by a lightning bolt. He couldn’t tell if he felt pain at the intrusion, or pleasure, much like everything else England had done to him over the last few days. He gripped into the edge of the bath, squirming  _ hard _ against England’s hand. 

“Wh--What the fuck--” he ground out through his teeth, grinding against him. 

England continued to barely twitch his fingertips, enjoying the way Spain jolted and jerked from the stimulation directly against his nerves. 

“Oh, come now Spain, you’re old enough to know about this little trick, aren’t you? Look how hard it got you,” England teased, grabbing his dick and squeezing in order to emphasize how it had risen since fingering those tiny short channels. England didn’t overdo it however, it was powerful enough just making him crumble from a single stroke of his finger. He pulled his hand back to cup and roll his balls, his other hand circling around his fully erect cock to slowly stroke him up and down. England leaned forward, licking at Spain’s chest as he was laid over the reclined back of the tub, catching a nipple between his teeth and licking at it, sucking until it swelled to meet him. 

A long moan left Spain’s throat, hips moving against England’s hand and back arching to push his chest closer to his mouth. By now the water was growing colder, and the stimulation gave rise to gooseflesh on his arms and any skin above the water, his other nipple hardening without any stimulation at all. 

A string of  _ fuck _ s left his lips, a hum of pleasure passing his lips before he began to feel the familiar sensation of arousal licking at his veins, his eyebrows furrowed and his head fell back against the bath. He whined. 

“G-- Going to…hnngh…” 

England stopped the slow movement of his hand encircling Spain’s dick entirely, only focusing on his nipples instead, lathing one with heavy tongue strokes while sucking hard at it, the other rolling between the pads of his finger and thumb. 

Spain panted and gasped, writhing under him. 

“C--Can I get out now…?” He asked, “it’s cold.” A full-body shiver rocked through him as if to prove a point. 

Trailing his tongue as he looked up, England decided he was right. He stood up and grabbed a thick rough towel, holding it at the ready. 

“Alright then, stand up for me, love,” England said neutrally. 

Spain actually felt his face grow warmer and he was quick to stand, stumbling in his haste to get out and almost tripping over the edge of the bath. 

“Fuck…” He cursed, climbing out with a shake to his legs much like before. He stopped and stood in front of England, ready to accept the towel. 

He draped it around him, crossing it over the front so he was swaddled in it before rubbing it vigorously over his arms and chest and shoulders, actually kneeling briefly to slide it up and down his legs, toweling him dry efficiently. Then England stood and directed Spain toward the bed by his shoulders, pushing him face down across the covers once his knees hit the edge. 

“Now, stay here and don’t move. I’m bringing you a surprise…” England said softly, already heading toward the door, briefly opening it to wave his men over. They dragged Mateo with them, he was completely bound on all limbs, a thick wet cloth gag shoved and tied in his mouth. Between the whipping and the abuse from his men as they impatiently waited, Mateo staggered in like a drunk, fresh dribbles of blood staining through his filthy shirt. England smiled grimly, jerking his head toward an empty chair in the center of the room where they shuffled him over and dropped him, tying him down.

Spain listened to shuffling, unaware of what was happening in the room. He spent only a few seconds trying to identify the sound before giving in. He’d find out eventually. For now, he had to focus on staying calm. He had to admit, he was slightly thrown aback by England’s sudden gentleness, he wasn’t sure what was going on, but he hoped the captain was beginning to show some semblance of mercy to him and his men. 

Locking eyes with the defiant mortal, England smirked tauntingly at him and strode back over to the bed, settling upon it and lightly stroking Spain’s limbs as if he were some sort of cat. The entire time he watched Mateo, watched as his brows furrowed, eyes darkening as he drank in the sight of Spain laid out on his bed, responding to his touch unprompted, without any sort of threat. 

Spain hummed softly, almost melting into the touch, doing what he’d done since surrendering: put on a show for England. His hands clenched in the bedsheets, and he settled on his forearms, sinking into the plush bedding. 

The lush sheets beneath him caressed his sensitive nipples as he moved, sparking arousal in the pit of his stomach. 

“Fuuck…” He cursed.

Draping himself across Spain’s back, England’s hand circled around to grasp his cock, his other hand rubbing across and cupping and pinching at his nipples. He grabbed him and hoisted him up so he was back to front and Mateo could clearly see his erection, could clearly hear him moaning for more, arching into his skilled fingers. 

“Let your voice out Spain, let me hear you sing,” England murmured, hand slipping lower to play with his balls again, toy with the skin there, and circle against him, barely pressing the pad inside. 

Spain did, moaning loudly, raising his hips into his touch. He exhaled heavily.

For the briefest moments, he wondered about Mateo, whether he was okay. But it didn't last long as England teased his sensitive skin between his legs, all coherent thoughts leaving his mind with the prospect of more intense stimulation.

England tilted his head to clamp his teeth down over the meaty junction between his neck and shoulder, biting deeply and sucking the flesh, leaving a dark bruise and he pulled blood to the surface of his skin. He continued to cup his hand and fondle Spain’s dick, keeping him hard even if he was in pain. 

Spain writhed beneath him, it took him by surprise, how much being bitten turned him on, and he mewled needily, lolling his head against England’s shoulder and lifting his hips, feeling his back go flush to his clothed body and groaned,  _ “again…”  _ He begged.

England smiled against him, shifting to the other side of his neck and biting down harder, glancing at Mateo as he did it. He gripped his hand a bit tighter as a reward, pumping him in a recognizable rhythm. 

Spain groaned, rutting against England’s hand, sweat beaded on his body, along his back, and on his brow. 

_ “More…”  _ He rolled his hips, slipping into Castilian.  **_“Please… fuck me...”_ **

“Not yet, Spain… First, you have to earn it,” England said, pleased at the slip. Mateo had stiffened visibly with those few words. Without explaining what was happening he tipped Spain forward on the bed, tossing him down against the sheets and standing up himself. Before he could gain his bearings, still being led around with the blindfold, England grabbed him by the arms and dragged him up out of the bed. 

“Come on, follow me. I want to use your mouth before I fuck you…” England lied, pulling and whirling him around until he was dizzy and then shoving him to his knees between Mateo’s spread thighs. His ankles had been tied to the legs of the chair, yet more rope around the crease of his knees, keeping his legs spread wide open. England ducked behind the chair and undid Mateo’s fly for him, hefting out his large limp dick. He then reached over Mateo’s shoulder to stroke Spain’s face, and helped him feel up the two warm thighs boxing him in. 

“Feel me here? Come on Spain, you know what to do. Use your hands if you have to,” England said, straining to hold back any sort of tell in his voice. 

Spain felt the warmth of his hand on his face, the thighs that caressed his cheeks, he ducked his head, extending his tongue to kitten lick at the side of what he thought was England’s cock. Nosing up the shaft before taking him down, shallowly bobbing his head. He hummed, sending vibrations down Mateo’s cock and feeling him squirm and struggle. That wasn’t like England. 

Unless he was testing him. 

He persevered, taking him down until he hit the back of his throat. 

England almost couldn’t stop himself from laughing. It was working too well, Mateo strained and taut in the chair, trying not to respond, while Spain kneeled between his first mate’s legs doing every trick he knew to wring more passion from him. England had to hold a fist to his mouth to stop himself from giving it away, taking a full moment to collect himself before saying in a strained voice, “Ah, yes, you’re doing so well Spain, keep that up.”

With Mateo sweating and closing his eyes, Spain humming and bobbing between his legs, fully engaged in the act of blowing him, England felt safe to step back, take a mental painting of the moment and then quietly step around to Spain’s slightly raised backside. He had his heels tucked under him, the ball of his feet balancing him there and it was easy to access reaching down and slipping an oil-slicked finger inside. 

Spain moaned lowly, lifting off Mateo’s cock and resting his head on his thigh, hot breath hitting the side of Mateo’s cock. It took a moment for him to realize, a particular thrust inside him for him to notice something wasn’t right. 

“England…?” He lifted up, reaching up to lift the blindfold, thumb hooking under the fabric. A moment’s hesitation… 

England knew the moment was imminent, Spain would soon see the nasty surprise he had planned for him, but he wanted to extend it for as long as he could, savoring the reveal. He pressed two more fingers in, three of them squelching loudly in and out of his sore ass. 

“Ah, ah, ah… Not yet Spain,” England said, bending his fingers so the pads sloshed across his prostate. “Don’t stop sucking.”

Spain cried out as England’s fingers hit his prostate, gripping onto tanned thighs with his fingers and dragging his fingernails over the expanse of flesh, he returned to Mateo’s cock, swallowing around him and humming again, he couldn’t stop his saliva as it dribbled out of the corners of his mouth, stretched wide around his cock. 

England didn’t want to lose the moment and before Spain was ready, his muscles still tight as a band around his probing fingers, England spread them and pressed the blunt head of his cock to the bared hole, jerking his hips forwards as he pulled his hand back, replacing digits with dick. When Spain flung his head back with a loud wail, scrabbling forward to get away from the assault, England grabbed him by the back of the head and shoved him back down on his first mate’s dick, the two of them spit-roasting the nation. 

Spain groaned and gasped, struggling to breathe through sucking Mateo’s cock, he learned the rhythm quickly, starting to breathe whenever England’s hand tugged on his hair and lifted him off the cock in his mouth. All the while he arched his back, raising his hips in response to England’s thrusts. 

“Yes…!  _ Yes…!”  _ Soon every time he came up to breathe, he was chanting yeses. 

He knew there was someone else, probably one of England’s men, perhaps his first mate or someone he trusted. But he couldn’t bring himself to think too hard about it, it felt so  _ good. _

England grinned ferally, his hips slamming steadily against Spain and he glanced up to catch Mateo’s eyes. There was an undeniable blush there, his eyes dilated as his captain worked him over, but his expression was one of despair, disbelief. He was looking away, trying not to engage, trying not to react, but eventually, he looked up and met England’s gaze across Spain’s arched back and his expression darkened to one of vengeful rage. 

It was time. 

“Are you ready Spain? Do you want it?” England asked vaguely, his thrusts speeding up to match his adrenaline. 

“Yesyesyesyesyes…!” He chanted, taking Mateo’s cock down so the tip hit the back of his throat and he swallowed, lifting off and saying,  **“give it to me!”**

England worked his finger through the knot and loosened it, pulling his blindfold away entirely revealing the other person swollen down his throat as he jerked in harder and harder, making all three of them shudder with his movement, England setting the pace as he felt his climax rising steadily in him like a beacon. 

Spain blinked a few times to adjust to the lighting change, noticing his nose pressed to tanned skin, brown wiry pubic hair. 

Wait. 

_ Tanned skin.  _

He dared to look up in time with a particularly hard thrust, seeing Mateo’s crumbling expression, blush high on his cheeks, and eyes scrunched closed. His stomach dropped, blood turning to lead, and his heart stopped all at the same time. He could feel his orgasm fading as he looked at his first mate, debauched and beaten and bloody. 

He pulled off and swallowed thickly, anxiously, angrily. 

“Mateo…” He snarled, “England!”

“Shut up and take it, Spain,” England panted harshly, hips a flurry against him, cock slick and thick and on the edge of bursting as he yanked hard on Spain’s hair, forcing his head up, looking right into the mortal man’s eyes as England spurted into him. “Fuck!” England yelled, hips twitching and filling Spain with his seed. 

England caught his breath, starting to laugh as he did so, sounding unhinged as he couldn’t contain himself. The irony was too good, the punishment too effective. He wasn’t done just yet. Even as he felt himself softening inside Spain, he knew this was only half.

“Hey, who said you could stop? Keep sucking him, slut,” England breathed heavily, a cruel grin decorating his features. 

Spain hesitated, looking over his shoulder at England as if to say  _ are you serious?  _

But then he remembered his place, if he refused, then someone would die. And he didn’t want to lose anyone else. 

He closed his eyes, sinking down onto Mateo’s cock obediently, suckling the tip and rubbing his tongue over the sensitive glans. 

England watched closely as Spain complied, and noticed that Mateo actually started to cry when it happened, a single repressed tear streaking uncontrolled over his cheek, neither of them able to pretend any longer with the blindfold removed. There was no going back, no retrieving the platonic trust and respect they’d shared. Not when he’d seen Spain’s slutty side, how easily he could be used. Now that he knew how slick his throat was, how skilled his tongue, the first mate would never have the same respect for him in battle, as a leader of men. England pulled out finally, watching as Spain’s hole twitched and closed after him, glistening from oil and cum. 

He’d planned to just let him finish it there with his mouth, but seeing how Spain’s ass fluttered and was already greased up, why not twist the knife a little more? Mateo was still rigid despite everything and Spain hadn’t given up, still bobbing his head up and down in order to finish the job. 

“Alright, that’s enough you cock slut,” England said, pulling him upright by his hair and standing, dragging him up to his feet. Before Spain could do anything else England shoved him at Mateo, watching as he collapsed against him, sliding down his tall body. “Onto the next ride,” England chuckled. “You know what to do, right Spain?”

Spain looked at Mateo’s face, instantly noticing the tear-streak on his skin. 

“I can’t…” 

The sound of steel being drawn slithered through the room, a sudden constellation of reflected starbursts across the wall. England drew Spain’s personal cutlass, Alfanje, and casually let the flat side of the blade rest on Mateo’s shoulder, the cutting edge perilously close to his neck. England could see his jugular throbbing in the candlelight, it would not be hard at all to simply draw it back and let the arterial lifeblood flood out. 

“What was that, Spain?” England said smugly, eyes glinting with bloodlust. 

Fear lanced up Spain’s body as he watched, he met Mateo’s eyes, and then England’s, back to Mateo before straddling his hips, reaching behind him for his cock and slipping it inside him. He was wider than England, slightly longer too, and the stretch burned despite the oil and cum inside him. 

Mateo made a noise behind the gag, and Spain removed the piece of fabric from his mouth, a breath away from his lips as he mumbled.  **“I’m sorry…”** He closed the distance between them, his hand resting over his neck, feeling his pulse jump under his fingers as his hand got in the way of his own blade at Mateo’s neck. He knew it wouldn’t do much, that England could hack into his hand and Mateo’s neck at any moment, but he kept his faith that he wouldn’t. He began rocking his hips slowly. 

He felt Mateo shifting under his weight, his first mate struggling against the binds. 

**“Let him kill me.”**

Spain’s blood went cold at the words and he gripped Mateo’s cheeks,  **“never!”**

All too aware of the blade at Mateo’s throat, Spain picked up his pace, gasping and panting as he rested his forehead on Mateo’s shoulder. Mateo fared no better, fighting against the restraints. Spain knew he must be close after their earlier activities, grinding down on Mateo’s cock as he began fisting his own.

**“Why…?”** Mateo asked with tears in his eyes. 

It killed Spain. 

**“B--Because he’ll kill you…”**

**“Let him!”**

Spain shook his head,  **“I’m sorry.”** He covered Mateo’s eyes with his hand, feeling his lashes flutter against his palm. 

He felt close to his orgasm now, jerking himself off and rolling his hips, bucking against Mateo. 

England stood there quietly transfixed, for once not directing the action, not dictating the speed or timing. The moment was its own organic pocket of suffering, of intimacy peeled back until it bled, trust shattered. He knew now for certain they hadn’t been involved before, that this was a first and painful encounter for them. And for England, it was a moment he relished. Rarely could he get to Spain emotionally; they’d always been more physical, one always killing the other. 

But now, seeing him fall apart with his human first mate, England knew there were other ways to harm him, other layers he could shred through. And humans, being so fragile around mortality themselves, always had quite the reaction to death up close. He could kill two birds with one stone. 

They were both panting, both shaking, Spain trying to cover the first mate’s eyes while they muttered in their own language. Spain began to work fast, beating himself to the same pace as Mateo was jerking and twitching under him. They were both so close, England could sense it. 

Neither had the wherewithal to notice when he pulled back Alfanje, aimed it right in the left-center of Spain’s back, right over his heart, and as they both began to shake and cry out in forced pleasure, England’s eyes flashed a toxic murderous green and he shoved the steel right between Spain’s ribs, pushing all the way through until he hit the sternum and even then he punched through. 

Spain’s head was bowed, chin resting on his chest as he drew nearer to his orgasm. He never made it that far, however, his head jerked to look at the ceiling as he felt a pressure on his back, followed by a stabbing pain radiating from the same place. His mouth opened, lips parting as his eyes widened in disbelief.  _ What?  _ His expression crumpled as he looked back down to the sharp protrusion sticking out from his chest, the very tip disappearing into Mateo’s side, just below his ribs with the angle they were in. 

He hiccupped a breath, unable to draw air in or exhale either, taking shallow breaths as he began to shake, his hands trembled, awkwardly jutting into talon-like shapes, uselessly coming to grapple with the blade despite it being futile. He was able to dislodge the blade from Mateo’s skin - the puncture wound not deep enough to cause death or any major issues. But it was deep enough to scar. 

As he bled out, crimson lifeforce covering himself and Mateo, oozing over the floor and dripping off the chair, his body sagged against Mateo, arms going limp from where they struggled to remove the blade. The cutlass only tore his skin further, as he slumped against Mateo, changing the angle of the blade and slicing his body to ribbons. 

His eyes were unseeing, glassy, and devoid of light as he died with them open. Mateo was silent before screaming, struggling against Spain’s dead body. 

England felt as if he’d just cum again. He slung the sword back out of Spain’s body, watched his body slump lifelessly forward, and then stared at the deep red staining the blade, the bright sunny jewels darkening into a dirty rust color. England felt a maniacal cackle bubbling up from his chest, letting it out to bounce around the room, competing with the positively horrified screams of the first mate. 

When looked back down and saw Spain manage a post mortem orgasm, he absolutely lost it, laughing loud and unhinged. It was perfection.


	3. Fair Like Weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spain learns the difference between big death and little death. His crew does not appreciate it.

Mateo couldn’t believe what had just happened. He was still sticky with Spain’s blood and other bodily fluids, looking at the brig before him, the men crowding around him to inspect fresh wounds on his back, the blood, he guessed they thought it was his. Even though he could never have blood so sunny. 

Was it possible for a nation to have different types of death? Because he’d never seen Spain die so brutally. It was barbaric. Even when he’d been shot in the head, there was something impersonal about it. Using a gun was a cowardly way to kill someone, in his opinion. You didn’t have to feel their body die, their lifeforce leaving them in gushing red like with a blade, their face peeling open with a scream cut short. 

He thought back to Alfanje, the way the beautiful sword was now tainted with rust-colored death. His mind eventually going full circle and returning him to the same place: Spain’s death. 

His frozen heart was barely beating, he leaned heavily against the walls of the brig, sliding down the wood until his ass touched the floor and his back had reopened and began to bleed though he couldn’t even acknowledge the pain. 

**“Mateo!”** The ringleader of the mutiny called, walking over with a cocksure swagger.  **“Where have you been?”**

**“Hell.”**

As if on cue, the ship rocked with a hard wave, righting itself quickly, but not before a rush of wind entered the brig, chilling a bloody Mateo to the core. He froze when he felt the wind. 

No…

He rushed to the bars, calling out for someone from England’s crew to come to him. 

**“Oi! Oi! Come here!”**

His fingers were slick on the bars, slipping down the metal. But he saw the look of confusion the other men in the brig were giving him, realizing that they were now his responsibility. That meant keeping them alive, whatever the cost. 

He looked down. That must have been what Spain was doing… 

Protecting them no matter the toll. 

He pressed his lips in a tight line, tugging the bars as if they’d break. 

“England!” He called loudly, his voice echoing in the brig and being carried off into the morning on ever-increasing winds. He grabbed the now-empty bucket, slamming it into the bars with all the strength he could muster. He had to warn someone. Preferably England. 

“La tormenta! England! Storm!” 

The English guard looked over at the loudly shouting Spaniard and scowled. 

“Shut up, you dog. He’s not coming down here to talk to a lowly prisoner,” the guard grumbled, but Mateo continued to shout and bang against the bars. When the shift change happened a few minutes later the guard was loudly relieved to be out of the disgusting hold. It smelled of wet shit and vomit and the shouting had been irritating.

“That idiot first mate wouldn’t shut up!” He complained loudly on his hands and knees as he and another sailor swabbed the decks, weak morning light flickering in and out with the grey blustery wind pushing clouds around. “Kept saying something about torment, can you believe it? Thinks the brig is torture, what an absolute-”

“Torment you say? Are you sure he wasn’t saying  _ tormenta _ ?” England said, suddenly standing over his men as he emerged from his cabin. He’d overheard the conversation, already his gaze roving to the sky, scanning the horizon. 

The guard looked up surprised, embarrassed to have been overheard whining by his nation. 

“Uh, yes sir. My apologies, I-” 

“Bring that man up on deck. I want to talk to him,” England said coldly, striding off to stand at the bow. 

“Yes sir!” The man replied, grateful he wasn’t in trouble for anything and he stood up to trudge down to the brig and retrieve the prisoner. 

Mateo wasn't about to give up. He continued to shout, smashing the bucket until it was dented and torn. His crewmates regarded him with more and more contempt as he continued but he didn’t care. It might save all of their lives.

“England!! Bastardo!!” He cursed, fuming. 

He saw the guard coming back down and stopped, snarling at him. 

“England?” He asked, dropping the bucket with a loud clatter and gripping the bars again and rattling them. 

“Shut up! Stand back!” The guard yelled, waving his pistol at Mateo and jerking it forward as if to say move away or I’ll shoot. 

Mateo backed up and he opened the door, holding the pistol up to the rest of the Spanish crew who were all standing and watching. 

“Just you,” The guard motioned him to get out with the barrel of the gun and he slammed and locked the door again once he stepped out. Using the gun he nudged him roughly up the stairs and through the hold until they finally emerged on the deck. 

England smiled ever so slightly when he saw the lively first mate heading his way, coated in dried brown blood from Spain. He wondered what he would do when he saw where Spain was now… 

“I heard you were being annoying. Are you really serious about the storm or are you just being stupid? Whether you make it to land or not depends on your answer,” England said coldly, not caring that he probably wasn’t being fully understood. 

Mateo ignored him completely, his expression controlled. His voice, however, was not. “Storm.” He said between his teeth. “Mal tiempo venir.” 

He felt frustrated by the language barrier, looking around his surroundings to try and find something he could use - anything. Instead, he grabbed England gracelessly, turning him so his back was into the wind, he did the same, standing beside him before pointing to their left with his left hand. “There.”

But the clouds came from behind them, rain falling in spits and spots onto the deck. He looked over the side of the vessel, observing the way the water hit the side of the ship. They were heading straight into the storm. He pointed to the helm, again, with his left hand, making the wheel motions with his hands. 

Anxiety licked at his veins, both at being so close to England and at the rapidly deteriorating weather. “Starboard. Now.” 

England watched the mortal explain about the storm coming and knew he was correct. He’d been an island nation long enough to know how to read the weather himself and the ocean was an open book to him after the centuries of experience he had. However, he mostly depended on his crew these days. Being an empire meant he no longer had to do all the grunt work himself. Even as he stood there listening to Mateo he felt the dull throb of a headache, his eyes pulsing as well, stomach bubbling unhappily. The rum-induced hangover wasn’t an issue when he could sleep half the day away and let his men do the sailing, but apparently, his navigator had also overindulged because no one knew where he was. Probably curled up snoring behind some cargo somewhere, sleeping off his hangover as well.

It annoyed England to admit that he and his men were sailing foolishly and it had taken a prisoner kept below the water level to alert him. England glared at him and didn’t acknowledge what he said, instead turning to his sailors and starting to shout orders to turn the ship portside and avoid the blustery front of the storm. 

Mateo’s blood still boiled as he thought of what England had done to Spain, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at England. 

He was awful at English, but he knew what England had said. 

Port. 

In all honesty, he knew that was the right thing to do, the storm was probably moving faster than them. But he had a hunch that England wouldn’t accept his opinion, so he’d said starboard in hopes England would do the opposite. But he knew that England would probably lord it over him that he was wrong about the decision to go starboard. 

He felt the boat heel as they began to go portside, focusing on the sensation to quell his waking rage. 

England glanced back at the Spaniard, smirked arrogantly at the pure hatred he saw flashing in his brown eyes. 

“You keep glaring at me like that and I’ll really give you something to be upset about,” England said, a chuckle in his voice. He already knew what he was going to do. It was why he was so terribly hungover. Drinking rum and setting up the perfect prison for his rival had taken all night. 

Mateo didn't understand what England had said, only that his tone hadn’t been something he wanted to listen to. He wanted to punch him, grab him, and throw him overboard. 

“Spain,” he said bluntly, his brows furrowed. 

England laughed loudly, but quickly lowered his voice as his head throbbed. Still, it was funny. He was going to get a kick out of this. 

“Come on then, let’s go see Spain,” England said, jerking with his head toward the captain’s quarters. He strode away without waiting to see if Mateo followed, so confident he was of his power and position. Even if he wanted to kill him, he wouldn’t dare. And England knew that. 

At the mention of his captain, he clenched his fists at his sides, following England with his head held high. He was going to escape with Spain, tonight. After the way the rest of the crew had deserted Spain, he had no qualms about leaving them behind. 

England opened the door and strode inside the dark interior, heading across the room to fling open the thick curtains shading across the entire stern-side of the quarters. Once the light came streaming through the window England smiled again, deeply proud of his handiwork. 

Spain was sitting in the corner of the room in a tall, wingback, throne-like chair, heaps and mounds of gold and jewels and pearls were all piled around his feet, fine silks and exotic pelts draped across the back of it, rolled into tightly stacked pyramids behind the chair. Spain himself was also dressed finely, in one of England’s many thick luxurious jackets, necklaces and jewels hung from his neck, his head heavy with a stolen golden crown. He looked as if he were sleeping, simply napping among England’s resplendent treasure. 

It was only the sight of Alfanje, gleaming with its fiery orange hilt, protruding from the center of Spain’s chest, that indicated he was dead. That he was just another object, not hoarding the treasure himself, but instead just part of the pile. He was stabbed dead to the chair and England wanted to see all of his theft stacked together in one place. Spain was just another piece of booty.  Despite the many layers and treasure covering his top half, his bottom half was bare, legs spread on the chair so his entrance was easily accessible. England had been pumping loads into his unconscious body all night. 

Mateo didn’t know what to expect when he entered the cabin, but his senses were heightened almost supernaturally and the smell of alcohol and death hit him as soon as he passed the threshold. He entered the room, eyes landing on the bed almost expecting Spain to be there after what he experienced last time. But he wasn’t. His eyes scanned the room, taking in every detail, including the chair he’d been restrained to. 

Finally, his eyes landed on Spain, sat regally on a throne, surrounded by lavish furnishings and expensive loot. At first, he thought that Spain had been dressed in much the same way as a common whore, all that was missing was the makeup as he was draped in finery and animal skins, jewels, and coins. But then, his eyes landed on Alfanje; England had moved the sword since that night. Protruding from his chest rather than his back. 

His stomach rolled violently, nausea cresting over him. 

He covered his mouth with his hand to prevent himself from vomiting, the stench of death and alcohol, coupled with the sight of Spain’s deathly-still body, was overpowering. 

Still, he walked over to his captain, holding his breath and not daring to breathe as he reached for his hand. 

“He’s not coming back, you know. Your captain is gone, mate,” England said with a taunt in his voice. He stepped closer, following Mateo and even clapping a hand on his shoulder as if to comfort him. A false, mocking gesture. It was really just so he could see the pain on his face, witnessing his captain reduced to a corpse. “As long as that blade’s going through his heart, he’s dead,” England watched Mateo hold Spain’s hand, watched him hold his breath and hold back his sick. 

England smiled indulgently. This was how he’d get him. Show him just how weak his country really was. 

“I want your skills, Mateo. You noticed our heading was off even when my men did not. I reward those who follow me, unlike him,” England said, jerking his head at Spain. He paused, sighed, knew none of it was getting through to the former first mate. “Guess I’ll have to work on your English before we do anything else…” he said, annoyed. 

Mateo remained silent, fists clenched as he finally took a breath. Nostrils flaring and he turned to England with pure, unadulterated rage in his eyes. He didn’t wait, didn’t stall. Rearing back and swinging forward wildly. His left fist connecting with England’s cheekbone, as England staggered back, he followed him, gripping his cravat with his right hand and punching him again, landing a hit square on his nose. Mateo lifted him up into the air before throwing him onto the ground, looking down his nose at him, squaring his shoulders as he stepped on England’s chest, pinning him to the deck. 

England wasn’t expecting the attack and was close enough to him that when he started swinging he was overbalanced and stumbled back, the man grabbing him and grappling all the way to the ground before slamming a boot into his chest. England once again felt a surge of irritation as this mortal dared to outdo him again, that he had the nerve to attack him knowing what he was. He summoned his supernatural strength as a nation and grabbed his boot, scowling up at Mateo as he heaved up to dislodge him. 

England was shocked when, for a moment, he didn’t budge. A mere human against the English Empire, it was impossible - unless… In an instant of furious clarity, he pulled his pistol from his belt and shot up at the man, the bullet striking him right in the stomach. 

Mateo grunted and hissed upon impact, taken by surprise by the burn of the bullet entering his body, how his skin felt as if it was on fire. He gripped his stomach in an attempt to pacify the rapid heavy bleeding, lifting his foot from England’s chest only to bring it back down and stamp on his face, pushing him further into the deck. 

Blood oozed around his fingers, wetting his hands with dark red. He finally staggered back, hunched over as he struggled to breathe. But he didn’t go down. He stood in front of Spain, between the two countries, refusing to surrender despite having a near-fatal gunshot wound to his abdomen. 

England roared in pain when the boot crashed against his face, he heard his nose crunch and felt his skull slam against the wood. He couldn’t see for a moment, stunned and blinking and rolling over groaning. He stayed down, head hanging low with his forearms still braced on the ground. His nose felt as if it had been stuffed with acid-soaked cotton, his sinuses clogged with blood which steadily dripped to the floor. On the back of his head a thick knot was growing, radiating constant pain and his hangover headache, which had been barely tolerable before, was now an all-consuming torment. God, when was the last time he’d had his face kicked in like that? 

He stayed still until he could see again, hand going to his nose and grimacing when he traced the crooked break down the center. He was in enough pain already and knew it was better to fix it now than to wait. He took a deep breath and then wrenched the hard bone back into place, giving out a shriek as he did it. He laid still again, panting. 

Finally, England looked around to see what happened to his attacker and saw where he landed. 

Mateo panted heavily, swallowing around a lump in his throat as blood dripped onto the floor. The injury was clearly affecting him more than he cared to admit, he’d had the perfect chance to take Alfanje from Spain’s chest, but he’d wasted it on watching England struggle, his mind too slow, in shock, to fully take advantage of the situation, a sick satisfaction at the scene that’d played out in front of him. But now his wound was taking its toll and he sank to his knees, both arms wrapped around his middle. 

He coughed, the movement making the bullet rattle in his body and he grimaced, bowing his head. 

England staggered up to his feet, hand pressed to his head trying to relieve the pressure, and growled when he saw Mateo. He’d collapsed right in front of Spain, sinking to his knees, his front coated in sheets of blood. But he wasn’t dead. And if England’s hunch was right then it was no wonder. Regardless, he was going to suffer either way. 

“You must think me an idiot to not notice… Spain, you bastard, how long have you been keeping him close to you?” England asked the dead man, not expecting an answer, not needing one. He would find out himself. He’d already made a plan the other night, why not use it? He sneered down at Mateo, spat a wad of blood and spit on him, and then held the pistol to his forehead. 

“Get up. I know you can,” England said in a hiss, words catching on blood-stained teeth, a diluted dark orange. 

Mateo groaned, on shaking legs moving to stand, he hauled himself up, standing hunched as he glared at England. 

“Cara de monda…” He cursed, wiping away England’s bloodied spittle and flicking his wrist so it landed on the floor. 

“Move,” England said lowly, flicking the gun toward the door, back out to the main deck. 

Mateo obeyed, letting the country take him out onto the deck. He was satisfied with his handy work, grinning even though he felt like he was doing the walk to the gallows. 

Barking orders at his men, England watched as they all started to scramble around, some continuing their duties to sail the ship as they veered along the edge of the squall line but many more began to gather closer, circling them and grabbing Mateo. They tied his arms with rope and tossed the coiled remains to another sailor who began scaling the rigging like a spider, flinging the length of it over the crossbeam of the mainmast. The men down below grabbed it up and began to pull, hoisting Mateo’s arms above his head, stretching him out making his wound bleed even more, lifting him up to his tippy toes, and then even further so he hung completely off the ground. 

England went back into his quarters, filled his mug with rum from a flagon, and downed it quickly. His face hurt terribly, his head pounded, and he knew there was nothing else to do but get roaring drunk all over again to ignore it. That, and handle the issue at hand. He took a few more shots and changed his cravat to a clean one, washing his face in a small ceramic basin to rinse away the blood. Already he was healing quickly but he still wanted to look put together. He took another huge swig of rum and felt his stomach glowing warm with the alcohol. Turning to leave again he grabbed his whip by the door and swaggered out onto the deck. 

Time to find out if he was right…

Mateo gasped for breath, body taut and pulled tight like a piece of string. 

He watched England disappear into his quarters, disheveled and a mess. Returning minutes later looking more put together. But what really attracted - no,  _ demanded _ his attention, was the whip in his hand. 

He snarled at the captain before spitting at him, the spittle landing on his captain's coat. 

England was tired of constantly needing to change his clothes. He let the whip uncurl and leaned back to throw his whole body into the length of braided leather, whistling as it sliced through the air and hit Mateo’s shoulder and chest, cutting through cloth and flesh alike. England didn’t stop, let the momentum swing around in a circle as he brought his arm down again,  _ crack _ , again,  _ crack _ , and again,  _ CRACK! _

He stopped to catch his breath, watched as the blood flowed from every wound, and raised the flagon to his mouth drinking right from the spout. He swallowed some but then spit even more at Mateo, laughing cruelly at the way he writhed. England turned and threw the whip at a random sailor. 

“Whip this dog until he’s drenched in his own blood. We’ll see how long he lasts in the dead heat of the day. Rum for everyone! Break out a barrel but make sure to keep the ship upright you scurvy bilge rats!” England shouted and enjoyed the raucous cheer that went up through his crew. Getting crossfaded in front of a storm was his kind of edging. He went swaying up the quarter deck to watch as his men took turns whipping Mateo and drinking, singing loudly into the wind as they were whipped along ahead of the squall. 

This was why he enjoyed the seas. The pure freedom of it. You could get away with anything out here if you were brave enough. 

Mateo hung from the crossbeam, swaying with the force of the hits from the whip as well as the swell and dip of the ship itself. His whole body heaved with each breath, in this position his organs felt heavy, tugging his insides down because his arms were secured above his head. His chest was torn, shoulders faring no better, but his body looked wider with the position he was in, shoulder blades pulling skin to make it seem like he was growing with every shuddering breath.

He saw England walking across the deck, where he was going he didn’t know, but he was going to taunt the captain. 

“Throat,” Mateo groaned and grinned through a haze of pain, eyes clouded by it. 

England paused in his strutting to look at the shredded man, leaning closer to leer drunkenly in his face, the smell of rum on his breath.

“What’s that? You want me to punch you in the throat?” England laughed and threw a full-force hit right in Mateo’s adam apple, sending him swinging wildly, spinning and swaying unlike with the whip strokes. 

“Listen to the fool croak! Bloody hell, he doesn’t give up, does he?” England continued to laugh and strode away. Let him try to talk back after three days hanging there. 

Mateo grunted in pain when England punched his throat, making a strangled gasp. 

Fuck. 

Bad idea. 

“England,” he rasped. 

England felt his eye twitch, what a stubborn sonuva… He slowly turned and sneered at Mateo. 

“What?”

“Eres tan feo que hiciste llorar a una cebolla.” 

England knew an insult when he heard one, no matter what the language. He stepped closer, annoyed he was still being defiant despite coating the deck with his blood.

“Métetelo por el culo, mamahuevo.” 

England felt his patience wearing razor-thin as he stepped closer, alcohol lowering his threshold to nothing. The plan to bleed and dry him out was quickly fading, he didn’t want to wait for him to weaken slowly, not with a mouth like that. He grabbed his pistol from his belt and held it right against Mateo’s throat. He frowned at him, pulled the hammer back, only his finger separating Mateo from a bullet. 

“Say something else,” England said dangerously. 

Mateo didn’t even flinch when the gun was pressed to his throat. The way he saw it, if he was dead, he couldn’t be used against Spain anymore. He’d accepted death hours, possibly days earlier, the strange dreams he’d been having left him wracked with guilt. He missed home. 

“Fuck you,” he ground out defiantly. 

And with those two words, England’s plan was thrown overboard and he decided to take the quick and dirty route instead. 

“You first,” England ground out and pulled the trigger, shooting him point-blank. 

_ It was dark. Cold. Mateo looked around, not knowing where he ended and darkness began. It was all-consuming. Scary. Is this what dying was like? _

**_“¡Mateo!”_ ** _ Catalan… his native language. How he’d missed hearing it. _

_ He turned to the voice, the darkness fading to reveal rolling green hills and valleys, and azure waters. The snow-capped mountains of the Pyrenees framed the land, from the top of the mountains you could see the borders of Spain and France. _

_ “Padre.”  _

_ He felt something nudge his leg. A lamb.  _

_ Suddenly, there were dozens. Lambs and sheep surrounding him and his father.  _

_ That’s right.  _

_ They were shepherds… _

_ Until he ran.  _

A harsh gasp passed his lips and he jolted awake, eyes opening wide when he realized he was still hanging from the crossbeam. He wasn’t dead? Why wasn’t he dead? 

His throat felt numb, mind hazy, and thoughts fuzzy. His eyes focused on England, who was wearing an unreadable expression. He found himself drifting back to the memory he’d experienced, that he’d repressed for years, tears stung his eyes, and he scrunched them shut. 

Andorra…

He missed home…

“I fucking  _ knew  _ it!” England shouted, both furious and savage from the confirmation as he watched the man’s eyes flutter open and closed. No, not a man… Well, there was only one way to break him in. Both the rum and the knowledge that he got to be his  _ first _ , lit up a fire inside him. He was going to enjoy this. 

“Gather round boys! It’s gonna be a long day with this one!” England yelled and more of them showed up, laughing and grinning like a pack of jackals. They were in a celebratory mood, hold full, treasure secure, even a captive nation. England wanted them to let loose, use their newest neighbor as entertainment.

The men who had gathered around had already been drinking but now the more musically inclined ones picked up their instruments, playing jigs and reels on a fiddle, pennywhistle, and concertina, a couple of pairs of the more drunk ones dancing together in sloppy spinning circles, all of them singing and cheering. 

England watched them with glee, feeling giddy and cruel himself. He couldn’t wait to start. 

“Watch this!” England boasted and pointed his gun at Mateo’s forehead. 

Mateo opened his eyes, staring down the barrel of the pistol and feeling fear. 

He was still thrown by what happened, unsure if anything had happened at all, after all, how could someone survive a bullet to the throat - he thought back to his duel with England. England had survived. 

He met England’s eyes, bending his elbows and forcing himself to hoist up with what little strength he had. He kicked his legs, using his momentum to swing backward and forwards. Once he’d reached the right height he kicked out at England, knocking the gun from his hand. 

England looked drunkenly at his empty hand, shocked that the first mate had any fight left whatsoever. He caught the silver glint of his gun in his peripheral as it went flying overboard and England snarled enraged. He’d stolen that flintlock from France! 

Too mad for words, England stumbled back and shouted to his men, “Hey, fuckin, ready!” the music stopped, they all looked up in alarm, confusion, “Aim!” Suddenly they were all scrambling to get their guns out in time, many of them not even bothering, so sudden it was happening, “FIRE!” England roared, throwing his arm forward at Mateo. 

Only a few went off right when he said the word, but several more followed suit, a brief chaotic volley of noise and smoke as Mateo’s body was riddled with metal slugs.

_ This time it was white, not blinding like light, but a gentle glow, a flurry of snow, off-white bodies scattered amongst pristine brilliance.  _

**_“Mateo,”_ ** _ the same voice from before spoke softly, a hand clapping the back of his neck and jostling him. That’s right… he was mourning the sheep who’d succumbed to the cold, huddled over a ewe’s body. She was his favorite... _

_ He looked up to his father,  _ **_“yes?”_ **

**_“Come now, dry your eyes,”_ ** _ his father knelt beside him _ _ ,  _ **_“this is life, everyone dies one day… but you shouldn’t mourn; instead celebrate the life they lived!”_ **

_ He reached into his pocket, drawing out a flask and giving it to Mateo.  _ **_“So, celebrate her.”_ **

_ It was his first taste of alcohol. Just a sip. Bittersweet.  _

When he came to, he could tell it had been longer than the first time he’d been shot. It was now late afternoon and he looked around at all the men, passed out on the deck. But one remained awake. 

England.

He was still drinking and reclining in a chair in front of him. 

He spoke in English, features twisting in annoyance. A loud gunshot split the air, and suddenly he was falling. He hit the deck with a thud, groaning in pain, by now he couldn’t feel his arms, and he’d lost all sensation in most of his body. He rolled onto his back, looking up at his zenith, not a cloud in the sky. 

England came into his view and he scowled. 

“Spain.” 

“Ask again next time,” England snarled, pressing the gun point-blank between his eyes and pulling the trigger.

_ There was a deafening bang. _

_ Suddenly he was falling, tumbling from his father’s arms.  _

**_“Father!”_ ** _ He crawled over to his father, profusely bleeding from his back, crumpled to the ground where he was shot. He ducked his head to avoid another barrage of bullets, tears in his eyes as he looked at his father with a hopeless stare. He was going to die. _

**_“Come now…”_ ** _ His father coughed, blood spilling from his lips as his lungs filled with his lifeforce.  _ **_“Dry your eyes…”_ ** _ He wheezed. Drowning was apparently supposed to be a quiet death, but Mateo could hear it all.  _ **_“Live your life, son…live like there’s… no tomorrow.”_ **

_ Mateo only cried more.  _

**_“Now run… go - go South into Spain… you’ll be safe there.”_ **

_ Ravenous dogs like wolves, barking, and snarling were closing in, men from the French forces following suit.  _

_ He ran, tears streaming down his cheeks.  _

The next time he opened his eyes, he was in England’s quarters, looking at the room from being propped up in the corner. He looked around, bullets were scattered on the floor, dried blood on the slugs and he realized they’d been inside him. 

What was he lying on? 

He turned his head, seeing a tanned leg. He realized a lot of things in that moment. That Spain was still dead, that he was  _ lying against a dead Spain,  _ and as he struggled to stand, to get away from the body, he was shot again, this time in the back. 

“Who said you could move?” England asked, but Mateo didn’t understand. “Sit at your captain’s heels like the dog you are.” 

He still didn’t understand.

**“I don’t understand--”**

“Wrong language. In English!” He stomped on his thigh, holding the gun to his face. “¡En inglés!”

Mateo began to panic. 

**“I don’t--”**

England hit him with the butt of the gun, sending him sprawling against the floor. He was staggering drunk and still vacillated wildly between victorious gloating and enraged murder. He swayed as if in a strong wind, held the gun up which he’d just hit him with and squeezed the trigger. It clicked and nothing happened. 

“Fucking, goddamn, bloody, horse-humping, thundercunt! USELESS!” England shouted, throwing the gun at Mateo who was still collapsed at Spain’s feet. He lurched forward and grabbed Alfanje’s protruding hilt, put a boot thrown against his still chest and yanked the blade free as if a twisted belligerently drunk version of King Arthur’s legend. But England was no hero, not now. He stumbled back, keeping upright but having to take a few overcorrecting steps to get back in balance. 

Mateo ducked out the way of the gun he’d thrown, watching his every move with wide, fearful eyes, he saw the blood-covered blade leave Spain’s body, Spain’s back arching with the force England had used to remove it. He scrambled backward, hitting Spain’s legs and being stopped in his tracks. 

He didn’t want to die again. 

He didn't know how the nations did it, it was the worst feeling he’d ever experienced. Yet, for Spain and England, it was a normal thing to do to each other. 

“Please…” 

England blinked slowly at him, a lopsided grin pulled his lips back. 

“Hahaha, so… You do know some English… What a good word to start with, and since you asked so nice...” England closed the distance and thrust the wet blade right into Mateo’s lower abdomen, piercing through his guts and staking him to the floor. “I’ll let you watch this time…” England slurred, laughing again as he watched Mateo’s squirming and suffering. He let go of the hilt and wobbled his way over to the bed, falling heavily on it and letting out a huge groaning sigh. He hated waiting. 

Mateo screamed as the blade entered his abdomen, struggling against it. He gripped the blade, trying to dislodge it but with little success, slicing his hands in the process. 

He looked at England, and then to Spain, seeing his fingers twitch minutely. 

England laid there and waited, felt the room spinning around him even when he was completely still, and he had to fight off the blackout he felt sinking its fingers into his cerebellum. On any other occasion, he would have filled another flagon to finish himself off but now, after hours of drinking and partying with his men, taking turns shooting Mateo like some sort of fucked up pirate piñada, he had to confirm something and refused to pass out until he had his belligerent confrontation. 

A chest-rattling gasp escaped Spain’s lips, his eyes flying open to see England on the bed, confusion settling in his body. What was he doing? Sat there, swaying slightly…

Then, his eyes landed on Mateo. Impaled on Alfanje. 

“Mateo!” His eyes shone with renewed anger, glaring at England. “Stop it, he’ll die!”

England blinked owlishly at Spain for a second before he jolted all the way up.

“About bloody time, Spain!” England surged up from the bed and stomped over to the treasure throne. Before he could recover he grabbed Spain by his jacket and heaved him out of the chair, a pile of jewels scattering, gold coins clinking heavily to the ground, the ironic crown fell from his head and landed on Mateo before rolling to the side. England turned and flung him to the center of the room where he landed heavily. 

“How long were you planning to hide him, Spain?! What nation is he?!” England roared, bearing down on him and kicking him harshly in the ribs. 

Spain was disorientated, first being revived, then being thrown and kicked around by England. 

“Wh-- What?” Had he heard right? A  _ nation?  _ He wasn’t hiding a nation, goddammit! “What are you talking about, England?”

“Don’t act like an idiot, you fucking idiot!” England shouted. He pulled a second pistol from the back of his belt and pointed it at Mateo, stepping closer with every word “We put two stone of lead in him and the bitch is still alive! What nation is he?” England finished the question with the gun pushed right up against Mateo’s skull. 

Spain watched in horror, “don’t shoot!” Then he bowed his head.  **“Mateo, are you a nation?”**

Mateo was silent. Sure, he’d had a hunch, the dreams, not dying, it all led to one thing and one thing only. 

He was a nation. 

**“I- I think so...”**

Spain froze, looking at him with wide eyes.  **“But you’re from Murcia!”**

“Will someone PLEASE speak English before I slap you both in irons and throw you overboard?!” England held himself back from shooting, but only just. 

Spain sighed, looking at England. 

“He told me he was from Murcia, he has a Murcian Spanish dialect.”

“Don't act coy with me, Spain! What NATION is he?!”

“I don’t know! I didn’t even know he was a nation!”

“Andorra.  **I come from Andorra.”**

England glanced between Spain and Mateo, or rather, Andorra, and finally dropped his arm, removing the pistol from his head. He began to laugh, a small little wiggle in his throat that descended into full-on belly laughs, guffawing as it all became clear. Outside his men were still singing and clapping - every single one of them out of their tree, and England felt himself growing weary. He wanted to join them, enough of this pointless nation-bullying. 

“Andorra, huh…? Guess you’re compensating for something. Pretending to be so big, when you’re really so very, very small,” England giggled. “Alright, come on Spain, I got another keg to crack open. Get your booty back over to that booty,” England laughed again at his own weak joke. 

Spain growled, walking over to Mateo and taking Alfanje from his body, grimacing at the groan Mateo let out, aiming the sword at arm’s length towards England. 

“Make me.” 

England scowled at him. “You really are a glutton for punishment, you know that? I’m trying to be nice here and you’re making me waste bullets. Don’t push me, Spain,” England warned, lifting his arm again to aim the gun at Spain. His hand wasn’t steady, but at this range, he didn’t need to be. 

Spain scowled, turning to Mateo before looking back at England. 

“I have some questions for you, England,” he spoke softly, trying to avoid another bullet but wanting to get his point across. “Where are my men? And why the fuck did you kill Mateo when I was so--” he shuddered “--obedient? Why should I do anything you say now, knowing you won’t be true to your word?”

He didn’t lower Alfanje. 

Mateo watched them both, eyes flitting between them. 

Fuck…

Alfanje could cut the tension in the air, let alone cut England down. 

"Obedient? You sure you weren't just horny, Spain?" England slurred at him, though even in his boozehound state he recognized he'd lost some leverage by being so violent. Still, he wasn’t just going to  _ admit _ that... 

"You reneged on the deal when you failed to mention you had another  _ nation _ with you. But, alright, fiiine… Because I’m so magnanimous I'll let all your men leave this ship alive at the next port we come to. I'll even give them rations and clean water. Happy now?" England rolled his eyes.

Spain was slightly thrown back by England’s sudden compliance. His angry expression faltered with England’s response, his arm slackening just slightly and Alfanje lowering. 

“Really?”

He was expecting to be cruelly rejected. 

But then Mateo spoke up. 

“Hijo de puta…” He was frowning too. 

England who had been feeling generous instantly swayed back into rage hearing the foreign words; the alcohol making it impossible to regulate his responses. 

“If he speaks that filthy language again I’m cutting his tongue out. Fucking teach him some manners, Spain, or I’ll do it for you!” England snapped. “Tell him that, tell him what I’ll do.”

**“Mateo-- Andorra-- whoever you are, shush…!”**

Mateo fell silent, looking up at England. 

“Come on Spain, drop the sword. You’re not fooling anyone,” England grumbled, moving over to the bed and throwing himself down upon it. His lack of concern, lack of fear showed just how in control he felt - of his prisoners at least; definitely less control of himself with enough spirits running through him to pickle a boar. Suddenly the idea of going out and drinking more felt tiresome. He waved a hand vaguely in their direction without looking, letting his eyes slide closed. 

“I want your mouth, Spain,” England said simply, letting his arm fall back to the bed. “Come over here.”

Spain and Mateo shared a glance, before Mateo shrugged, motioning with a hand to say  _ he's all yours. _

Spain scowled. "Thanks,” he said, handing Alfanje to Mateo.

He approached the bed fingertips stroking the fine silks. He climbed up onto the bed, looming over England. He got in his face. "Distribute the water and food first, or you get nothing."

England cracked a single irritated eye open. 

“Seriously? Fucking, fine. Move,” England sat up quickly, shoving Spain back on the bed and lolling up to his feet. He trudged to the door and opened it leaning out to yell at his men. 

“Hey! One of you rats go give the prisoners some water and hardtack. Enough to go around, got it?” There were a few muttered responses though the music didn’t stop. England leaned back in and closed the door, striding back over to the bed. 

“There, you happy now, princess?” England asked sarcastically, flopping himself down on the sheets again. He took his captain’s hat and dropped it on the corner of the bed, toeing his boots off where they clunked to the floor. He scooted up higher on the bed so he could lean against the headrest and for a moment he closed his eyes. England thought he might just fall asleep first, so heavy was the weight on his eyes, but when he felt the bed shift and he saw Spain carefully trying to leave, a mean-spirited smirk quirked the corner of his mouth. 

“I’m still waiting, Spain,” England murmured without opening his eyes. 

Spain  _ tsk _ ed, returning to the bed, he looked at Mateo before he lay down beside England, his hand sneaking into his pants and getting his cock out.

"I ain't sucking 'til it's hard, Captain~" he sneered, palming his dick.

“Whatever, love…” England said noncommittally. He gave a deep sigh and spread his legs a bit, folded his hands together in his lap, and lazily regarded Spain and his handjob. He felt so drunk he didn’t know if he could even get hard, more an exercise in control than pleasure, but as Spain jerked his wrist up and down England felt himself responding nonetheless and he moaned aloud as he felt his dick start to swell, already half-mast and still growing. 

Spain continued to work him over, deft fingers leaving featherlight, teasing touches over his cock, and working him to full hardness. He pressed his palm against the tip, massaging it gently. 

England’s hips squirmed, small little jerks up against the smooth surface of his hand. 

“Ffff-uck… Spain… Mmmm… Yes, yesss… That’s good,” England was starting to pant open-mouthed. “Alright, I’m hard - get those cock-sucking lips on me,”

"Mateo!  **Go to the brig and make sure the captain is playing fair,"** Spain smirked, gripping England's cock and lowering himself down the bed, smearing expensive sheets with blood both dried and fresh from his stomach. He waited for Mateo to nod and leave before licking a wet stripe from base to tip. 

England let out a shuddery breath, hands going into Spain’s hair to scratch encouragingly at his scalp, holding him in position but without any force. He let Spain set the pace, go only as deep as he wanted. He felt indulgent toward his old rival. 

“Don’t you mean, Andorra?” he mentioned after a long moment of silence.

Spain rolled his eyes. “To me, he’s Mateo. Always will be.” 

He suckled the tip, closing his eyes, and relished in the way England rolled his hips as his fingers teased his hair. It was odd, feeling him be so gentle. Letting him set the pace. Something he took full advantage of as he took him down until he hit the back of his throat, moaning softly at the sensation and sending vibrations through his cock. 

"H-how long have you… ah~ What sort of power do you have over him?" England bit at his lower lip, closing his eyes.

Spain lifted off, resting his cheek on his thigh where he’d stabbed him, he stroked down his other thigh with teasing fingers. 

“I’ve known him for ten years, he’s my first mate. That’s all.” Spain took a moment to think, smirking softly, almost affectionately. “But his left-handedness is definitely an asset in fighting - it’s rare we meet someone who can fight a left-hander.”

"Left-handed you say?" England's hand traced lightly over the hollow of his throat, "No wonder…" England's thoughts meandered around maps, natural resources, borders, and invasions, what sort of experience a tiny landlocked nation would have. How this new nation might be of use to him. But those empire-oriented ideas quickly blurred into nothing as Spain's mouth moved onto him again and England couldn't stop himself from bucking up into the suction.

"I wonder… if you trained him this well,"

Spain gagged and pulled back, wiping his mouth. 

“Of course I trained him, when we met he couldn’t even hold a cutlass, let alone use one. I paid handsomely for a blacksmith to make one specifically for him that takes into consideration his… natural talent.” Spain looked up at England. “I know what you’re thinking, and full offense, but if you hurt him or try to use him, I will end you.” He sighed, warm breath making England’s cock twitch. “But, his story isn’t mine to tell. You should try talking to him sometime, he’d probably open up to you if you showed him a friendly face and didn’t y’know, pump him full of bullets.”

Spain licked the tip with a flat tongue, tonguing his slit and tasting his precum before he worked his mouth over him again.

England pulled a face. It was sentimental nonsense like that which made him superior. Why he insisted on treating nations like friends, especially such a small and weak one, he would never understand. 

"Just shut up and suck," England grumbled, sinking back into the sheets and relaxing. His eyes closed again and even with the skilled attention on his dick he still felt himself slipping beneath the sleeve of sleep. He wasn't concerned with them both wandering free, every one of his men knew their status and they were still miles away from the closest land. What could they do?

Spain did as he was told, sucking England's dick and fondling his balls. He swallowed around him, daring to look up and see England's peaceful features… when he wasn't being a dick he was actually pretty handsome. Only when he was dead to the world, though. 

He listened to England's gentle breathing, lifting off his cock and grinning. 

It was time. 

Spain grabbed his hat from the foot of the bed, donning it and straddling his hips. Using his hands to immobilize England's above his head. Finally, he pressed the cleft of his ass against his dick, deciding to take his time and rolling his hips. 

England gave a tiny moan but didn't wake up, if anything he sank deeper and flatter against the bed, his cock still hard and wet against Spain's ass, hips twitching into the stimulation. 

Spain gasped softly, bowing his head as he lifted off his hips. One hand caged England’s wrists, the other moving down to hold his slick cock as he slipped down onto it. He took his time, going down inch by inch, breathing deeply through his nose and out through his mouth in shuddering pants. 

He closed his eyes, bearing with the stretch of England’s cock and sucking in a breath as he finally bottomed out, exhaling with relief. 

Going slower made it feel so much bigger, but so much more possible to take. He’d done it, without making himself bleed. His hand returned to England’s wrists.

England felt the vice on his cock, the tight grip that dragged a low-throated moan from him and dredged him out of his stupor. He woke up again, cracked open an eye, and grinned seeing Spain straddling him and grinding his ass deeper over his hips. 

“Fuckin’ slut… He didn’t believe me, haha…” England laughed weakly and let his eyes shut again. “But look at you… You can’t help but need a dick up your ass, Spain…” England trailed off, falling in and out of the scene. It felt good, but he knew climax was an impossible task in his current state. He wasn’t going to tell Spain that of course, he could ride his dick all night if he wanted, but the alcohol blocked the pleasure from going far enough. He felt himself falling back under, drunk and happy and in command - even when asleep. 

Spain watched him shift in and out of lucidity, twisting his hips hard and grinding against him. He moaned. 

It was then he realized that England hadn't snapped at him for wearing his hat. Smirking, he adjusted it on his head, making a show of wearing it. 

Upon seeing England's prone form, that he wasn't going to be waking up any time soon, he released his wrists, moving his hand to his own cock and working over it, his free hand bracing on England's chest. 

He moaned as he fisted his cock, rolling his hips against England's dick and drawing out his orgasm. Screw taking his time. 

Spain felt his toes start to curl, muscles going taut as his orgasm drew nearer. 

"Yes… yesyesyesyesyes…" he chanted, he was so close, desperate for release as he chased his orgasm. 

He saw white, vision blurring as he came, spilling over England's chest and stomach. Slumping against his chest and breathing heavily. He couldn't believe that England hadn't woken up. 

After several minutes basking in his pleasure, he finally moved, lifting off England's cock with a groan and collapsing beside him. His eyes felt heavy, body equally so, with a deep sigh he felt himself drifting off into slumber. 

\----

Mateo stared down his nose at his crewmates he’d once considered closer than family. The brig had not treated them well and the strain was showing. They had descended from allies to animals. 

**"Move, we're having that food!"**

**"No."** He denied them access, pushing them away.  **"You've had yours. This is for the captain."**

**"That captain?** **_The captain?_ ** **He doesn't care! He's been perfectly content living in England's quarters, probably living the high life while we're all left to die in our own feces!"**

Mateo scowled.  **"He's--"**

**"Fuck off! You've been gone just as much as he has, probably taking England's cock, both of you!"** The crewmate bickered, a chorus of laughter and jeering leaving Mateo feeling hopelessly outnumbered.  **"Why should we listen to either of you?"**

**"We're trying to keep you safe!"**

**"Bullshit,"** he spat, turning to the other men in the brig.  **"Look at where that sacrifice got you, whipped twice since we were captured!”** He motioned to Mateo’s body, still torn and streaked with blood, though once the man said it he realized none of his wounds were bleeding anymore. Strange.  **“If that’s how Spain’s allowing them to treat you - his first mate - what chance do the rest of us have?”**

**“It’s because of him that all of you are getting out of here alive! Don’t you dare belittle what he’s done for you…”**

**“He’s done nothing but turn into a common whore!”** The crew all murmured in agreement, sullen and stale being locked down there for days. The water and hardtack were just enough to keep them alive, not make them comfortable. 

**“He’s not… You know he doesn’t want to do this… He- he hates it, I’m sure…”**

**“You don’t sound so certain, Mateo…”**

**“I am. Just hold on, we’ll all be out of here soon…”** Mateo said in response, though the words stuck and clung like wet seaweed. They were right. Spain certainly did look like he was enjoying it… Being used by another man like that. He shook his head and turned to leave the smelly pit. It couldn’t be true. Spain was just acting in their best interests. If putting on a show for England meant they would be safe, of course, he would… 

Mateo carefully and slowly navigated his way back up through the hold and out onto the deck, being careful to stay well away from England’s drunk crew. They had all had a hand in whipping him, actually passed the tool around, and made commentary on each other’s technique as he hung there and was forced to bear it. They were all sleeping or drinking themselves into a stupor, only a few watchful eyes keeping the ship afloat and out of harm’s way on the open ocean. 

Mateo made his way back to the captain's quarters, stewing on what the men had said. There was no way Spain actually enjoyed it…

He pushed the door ever so slightly, peering inside and saw the moment right when Spain let out a soft alluring cry as he beat himself, hips rolling back and forth, the creaking of wet slick flesh rubbing, and Mateo’s eyes widened as he saw Spain jerk and spill himself over England. It was at that moment when he noticed England was completely blacked out, dead to the world. Something went hard and brittle inside him as he watched his captain climb from England's body and fall into a heap beside him, legs and arms curling around their captor and sighing happily. He swallowed thickly and slowly shut the door. It certainly looked like he was enjoying it…

Fuck… 

He thought back to the way he was cruelly used. Did he enjoy that too? 

The thought of going in and scooping him out of there like he’d planned now felt sour in his mouth. He briefly considered going back down to the brig and stay with his crew, but the conversation and the conditions down there weren’t exactly welcoming. Mateo stood on the deck and for the first time since joining Spain’s crew a decade ago, he felt lost. 

He glanced over to the sparse circle of Englishmen still awake on the deck, they sat surrounding an upright rum barrel and a small metal grated brazier that burned cheerily in the center, setting all their pale faces alight. The musicians had long since fallen asleep and the only noises were the waves lapping at the sides of the ship, the deep wooden creaking of watertight joints flexing, the wind whipping through his hair and furling through the sails. 

Mateo hated them, every single one of them had taken a turn at the whip, all of them laughing and drawing entertainment from his pain. They’d even made a game of it, each trying to outdo the last. But now, after seeing how alone he was, even that torture seemed like it had happened long ago. His whipped body was healing remarkably fast and he still hadn’t quite processed the fact that he’d been shot so many times that day. How was he still alive? He couldn’t possibly be a nation, he didn’t even know what that meant, but after everything, he could clearly say he wasn’t really afraid of these men, despite how they’d hurt him. 

He didn’t know what else to do and so he threw caution to the wind, striding over and straining hard to contain his limp. It was important to look tough in front of these men, especially after being beat like a dog by them. As he approached the circle a couple of the men noticed him and scowled, standing unsteadily on their feet and putting their hands on their sword hilts. Mateo lifted his own and held them up to show he was empty-handed, kept his face neutral to show he meant no harm. The men stood there, unsure what to make of it but none of them seemed to care to start anything either. Everyone was comfortable and cozy and snuggled up around their cups of rum. Their bloodlust had been sated by him earlier, what else could they take from him? 

Mateo pointed at an empty area around the fire, then at the rum barrel, and mimicked drinking. The Englishmen murmured to each other in their language, the two of them standing laughed and made a joke about something. Mateo kept his cool, it didn’t matter what they said. He had to remain dignified and unfazed or it would never work. And indeed, as he stood there calm and steady, the Englishmen seemed to relax and eventually one of them even offered Mateo a dented tin cup. Some of the others spoke up to deny it but he spoke back, gesturing at Mateo as if to say, “look at him!” and the whole group finally relented. 

Mateo took the silent invitation and grabbed the cup, moving to the barrel and another sailor actually tipped it for him while he held his cup to the hole. He was impressed that between all of them, the English crew had just about polished off an entire hogshead sized barrel. The fact they needed to tip the casket at all was impressive. He didn’t know how any of them were still standing. 

Once his cup was full he sat on the deck around the brazier, enjoying the heat it threw off, and sipped quietly at his rum. It was good stuff, sliding down his throat with a smooth easy burn and an oaky finish. He looked around the group and felt himself relaxing for the first time since they’d spotted the galleon on the horizon days ago and the chase began. Despite these men being monstrous to him only a few hours ago, he could even place faces to specific stripes down his back, now they all seemed strangely open and friendly. 

Mateo blamed the late hour and the alcohol. Tomorrow they would go back to hating and abusing each other, he was sure. But for that moment, completely alone with no one to talk to, no captain to follow, no crew to act as his chosen family, Mateo thought drinking alcohol with his hated enemies was the best idea. At least out here, everyone knew where they stood. Sharing a drink with these men didn’t mean anything else beyond that. 

Mateo frowned and pulled his thoughts away from the captain’s quarters. He downed the rest of the drink and immediately went back for more. Might as well take advantage while they were still overly-friendly drunks. It wouldn’t be a bad look for him as well, he decided. Typically he didn’t drink as much as everyone else, the responsibility of being first mate kept him from descending to sloshed levels. But tonight, he only had himself to worry about. 

Might as well indulge. 

\----

The next morning England awoke to a terrible throbbing headache that threatened to burst his skull from its bounds. He groaned and closed his eyes again, rolling over to burrow back into the blankets fully intending to sleep it off for a few more hours when he suddenly encountered a warm body still muzzy with sleep, still dewy with night sweat. The captain’s hat rested jauntily on his head, somewhat crushed by his sleeping weight, but England found himself not caring about that.

England grinned as he immediately remembered the night before, or at least pieces of it. He could recall enough of it to know Spain had begged him for it, that Spain had climbed up on his dick to ride him without even a command to do so. 

The country in question was still sleeping soundly, but it didn’t stop England from sitting up and pulling the sheets back to stare at his naked, centuries-old rival. Whenever they had encounters they were typically quick, dirty, rough affairs. In all the time they’d spent competing and cheating one another this was honestly the first time England had ever just quietly looked at Spain and taken in his form without an ulterior motive, without any sort of plan. 

He was easy on the eyes, that was for certain. His limbs were all evenly tanned, his torso lean and muscled, a weeping cut in his chest the only remaining indication of the sword that had been impaled there. His hair was messy, but in a carelessly attractive sort of way, and even now, in the middle of the ocean, he smelled of sunny sand and  _ secano  _ soil. 

England breathed him in deeply, running his arm down the length of his brown body, and then scooted right up close to him, spooning him from behind as they had the other night. It had been so comfortable then, England still held a grudge toward Mateo - no, Andorra - for causing the commotion and breaking them apart. He could make up for it now. Morning cuddles and sleepy half-dreaming sex was the best… 

But first - England turned to his side table and grabbed the pitcher of water that was always placed there. He always intended to drink it throughout the night, but it never seemed to happen. It always came in handy the next morning, however. 

He drained the entire pitcher and then stood up to go relieve himself, being careful not to move Spain and wake him. He stumbled outside, still feeling groggy and tender to the light, and felt his way over to the rail, pissing off the side of his ship with complete indiscretion. When he finished he happened to look over and see Andorra curled up asleep in a thick coil of ropes, making a nest for himself. He snored lightly and clutched in between his broad curled hands was a tin cup, still some dredges of rum at the bottom of it. 

England felt his face twist, not knowing whether it was to scoff or smile, and he turned back to his quarters without a word. He knew the way to any pirate’s heart was, of course, through their liver.

When he reentered his chambers he felt slightly better but still headed to his desk to swallow the rest of the leftover grapes just to give his stomach something to gurgle about besides the distilled liquor leftovers. Once satisfied, feeling slightly back in his body, England stripped completely and slid back into the bed. 

He nuzzled close to Spain, hugging around him and curling right up to his backside. Already England was half hard and for a few minutes he contented himself with just holding Spain in his arms, hips rocking lightly against his round ass, hands stroking lazily up and down his side. Eventually, he felt Spain’s morning wood rising to the occasion, still dozing soundly even as his hips twitched, and he quickly rearranged them to be in the same position from the other night, his dick warm between his thighs, hands circled around him to grip and fondle and stroke his cock from the front. 

It felt so good, so easy, Spain’s body responded quickly and fully and England felt himself licking his lips as he shifted them to the next stage. He rolled Spain over onto his belly, sat up so he could get a better view, a better entry point, and carefully parted his pert ass. He laid his dick, thick and heavy, against the crack and let the cheeks hold him as he shifted back and forth. While he kept that up, he reached over and dipped into a metal box tin by the bed, some lubrication to make it easier on both of them. He slathered his dick in the stuff and continued to pump himself in one hand as he worked a pair of greased fingers into Spain’s ass with the other. 

Spain was somehow still asleep but was now opening his mouth and arching, his body definitely feeling it despite not being conscious. England grinned greedily and pulled his fingers away, spreading his cheeks and holding his cock against the slicked entrance. Spain had wanted it so bad last night, he’d been desperate. So of course he would be overjoyed to wake up with some fresh dick. 

His little Spanish slut… 

Spain hummed softly in his sleep, moments later a groan escaping his lips. He suddenly seemed restless, on the cusp of waking up but not quite there yet. He didn’t really respond to the stimulation, his hips didn’t move, back didn’t arch, instead, his body went taut, muscles squeezing with no sign of release. He whimpered, hands clenched into fists.

England shifted his hips, lining up, hands gliding up to rest one at the small of Spain's back, the other over his shoulder, then he leaned over and whispered huskily in his ear,

"Good morning to you, Spain," And he pressed his hips forward, laying his weight down and after only a second of resistance, he slid right in up to the hilt. Fuck, it felt so good…

Spain whimpered again, higher pitched this time. He startled awake, eyes going wide, and yet he couldn’t see.  _ He couldn’t see.  _ It was just blackness.  _ Blindfold. _ A hard thrust sent the darkness askew, a peek of early morning light in his peripheral vision. The hat… he was still wearing it…

He heard England’s voice, but by the time it reached his ears, it was white noise, indistinguishable from ocean surf in his current state. He twisted, gripping England by his hair in his left hand, and scratched his nails down his face clawing at him from behind. While England was hunched over his body, Spain pushed himself up and rotated, driving his left elbow into the side of his gut. He began thrashing, writhing under England’s weight. He pushed up on his arms, forcing the country to slip out of him as he twisted onto his back, facing England. His eyes were glassy, unseeing, breathing hard and his pulse point in his neck twitched rapidly with his heartbeat, threatening to burst from his skin with how it moved. His muscles felt taut enough to snap.

In his haste to get away from England, he knocked over some trinkets, jewels and the metal box of lubricant almost fell with everything else from on his bedside table. Even the pitcher clattered to the ground loudly, only serving to startle him more. The hat he’d been wearing from the night before he threw across the room.

“What the  _ hell _ are you thinking, Spain!? The fuck is wrong with you? Goddamn it, my face!” England yelled holding his left cheek, a furious and riled expression visible through his fingers.

The yelling made him flinch and tears finally trekked down Spain’s cheeks, which were far too pale and stained grey. He looked like he’d seen a ghost, skin pallid and clammy, streaked with perspiration and the hair on his arms stood at attention. 

England paused in his tirade when he saw the tears and finally noticed how Spain wasn’t really awake, he could recognize what a man looked like when reality glazed over for old terrors. He softened and lowered his voice, started to reach out toward him.

At every attempt England made to move closer, Spain shoved him away, his eyes still unfocused and very much still seeing whatever nightmare he’d woken up from. 

“Hey, hey, Spain… It’s me, love. Come on, come back to me, you’re alright you hear me? You’re okay. Hey! Come here and  _ listen _ !” England had gotten tired of being shoved and after minutes of struggling, he finally managed to immobilize Spain, knees pinning his thighs flat against the bed and hands around his wrists above his head. 

The whimper of  _ stop _ that passed his lips affected England more than he’d ever care to admit. It made his chest ache, made his nose scrunch up with some ill-defined emotion and he let out a breath and let go of Spain’s wrists. He clambered off the trembling country and off the bed entirely, stomping over grouchily to the corner near the empty sitz tub and leaned against the wall there, facing away from Spain and cursing and muttering to himself as he took care of himself and jacked off in the corner.

“Goddamn, that fucking Spain, piece of shit, asshole motherfucker, can’t even do a nice thing right, fuck, fuck, fuck,  _ fuck _ !” England’s hips jerked and he let himself go, cum hitting the wood trim of the curved wall. 

Once England had moved away, Spain managed to claw his way back to himself. He exhaled hard, suddenly, feeling as if he hadn’t been breathing at all. Fuuuuck… His mind felt fuzzy, but not the good kind of fuzzy that spread warmth throughout his body. More like a suffocating fuzz that left him feeling overwhelmed, cotton stuffed inside his brain and making it impossible to distinguish one thought from another. He looked over to the corner, seeing England and for a minute wondering what he was doing, but as he spilled against the wall it became obvious. 

Spain felt his face heat up at the sight, realizing moments later that this was England’s attempt at showing him mercy…

He didn’t linger on the thought for too long, his mind turning to darker memories instead, a rapidly disappearing nightmare erasing itself from his memory until all it left was a ghost. A shell of terror that left him feeling cold, numb and he missed the warmth of the Spanish sun in that moment. 

England turned and looked back to the bed and saw that Spain had finally calmed down, though now he looked miserable and exhausted in exchange for the fear. He heaved a massive audible sigh and slowly made his way closer to the bed. His hangover was back. 

“You back with us, hmm? It was a bit dramatic even for you,” England said coldly, knowing he couldn’t really help it, that he too had his share of traumatic memories that would take him on wild rides on occasion. Still, he didn’t know how to comfort and instead could only pester him to show any sort of care. 

Spain scowled at the words, “next time, try not to be the reason behind those cuts on your face, hm?” 

Half of him wanted to make a remark about giving him some to match and go back to what they’d started doing now that Spain was finally awake. But the sober hungover half of him just wanted to lay down. It was too much effort to struggle. He shot Spain a venomous glare to suffice and got back on the bed. 

“Shut up and go back to sleep,” England grumbled.

Instead, Spain shook his head, “finish what you started first.” He lay back against the headrest, wood carvings digging into the back of his head. 

“Really? After you did this to me?” England jerked a thumb at his face. He was laying on his back on top of the blankets wedged right next to Spain. “If you want it, do it yourself. I tried being nice this morning, now it’s your turn,” England said, closing his eyes as if to say he didn’t care what Spain did. 

“It’ll be healed in minutes,” Spain said as he watched him for a moment before scooping his legs up against his chest and leaning his head on his knees. “I’m sorry.”

England cracked open an eye to peek at Spain and sighed again when he saw him curled up. He reached over and grabbed Spain’s wrist from his knee and tugged him over balanced until he tumbled on top of him.

“Come on, Spain, don’t mope. It doesn’t suit you. You look better like this…” England murmured encouragingly, stroking his wrist which he still held, his other hand going to stroke his face. Their naked dicks were touching though neither was hard yet. It could go whatever way Spain wanted, England decided. 

Spain briefly wondered who’d possessed England, perhaps it was Queen Mary I trying to find her lover and consort King Philip II of Spain because surely there was no logical explanation as to why he was behaving the way he was. So tender towards him where just days earlier he’d been using his power to exercise complete and utter domination over him. 

He lay with him in stillness, realizing that this was also the first time the captain had graced him with his completely naked form. At the new information, he squirmed. 

Was Spain acting… shy? England mused, watching him blush and avert his eyes, thighs shifting nervously over his. This wasn't a bad look for him either, England decided. 

“What’s this… I’ve never seen you acting so coy, Spain,” England let go of his wrist and began stroking up and down his folded thigh. 

Spain tried to formulate a response, and for a moment he did have one. But as soon as England’s hand touched him it completely disappeared from his mind, instead, all he could come up with was, “shut up.” But it lacked any bite. 

Spain rolled onto his back, looking up at the cabin ceiling, wondering how long it would take to get to port, to free his men. What else would he have to do to get there? 

England was actually relieved when Spain shifted off him and lay next to him instead. If they weren't going to have sex he didn't want to just stare naked into each other's eyes. It felt too intimate, too much like something it wasn't. They weren't humans, it was useless to play at it. It was better like this, not so close. England took Spain's shoulder and shoved him up to spoon behind him. He was more comfortable now, just holding him without the eye contact or sweet nothings. He didn't know what had come over him… 

Spain was just settling into England’s arms, his eyes closing and body starting to relax when he heard a commotion outside, shouting and chanting  _ in Spanish _ . There were gunshots, the sound of swords clashing. And then the door caved in. 

His eyes widened when he saw his crew barging in, even more surprised when their eyes landed on him. The ringleader, the deserter of his crew, snapped at the sight, his face twisting in disgust.

“¡Chapero!” 

England had already surged up off the bed and snatched his nearby sword but was still stark naked before the crowd of men. He was furious and didn’t care if it was feckless to fight them; no matter what he was going to bring some of these men down with him. He brandished his sword at them, lowering and widening his stance into a coiled crouch, and shouted fiercely.

“Come on then! I don’t give a fuck! I’ll take on all of you Spanish bastards!”

Spain tilted his head, brows lifting in upset. 

**“What’s going on?”** He asked,  **“what’s the meaning of this?”** He climbed from the bed, covering his decency with one of the blankets. His voice was hard, a tone he’d never used in front of England before, it was a growl. He tied the blanket around his shoulder, draping the fabric around his body like a robe. 

**“We could ask the same of you,** **_Captain.”_ ** The word was sneered, spat instead of the respect they once held for him. 

**“I--”**

The leader of the uprising cut him short, wielding Alfanje and motioning for some of the men to circle England, guns at the ready, keeping a few at his side to outnumber Spain. 

Spain grumbled under his breath before declaring as an order,  **“stand down.”** Again, his voice was steely, even in a different language it exercised power over everyone in the room. 

Some of his men faltered, but the ringleader was quick to rally them around again, he shot Spain in the stomach, making him keel forward and painting the sheet around his body crimson. Spain cried out, gripping his stomach as he was grabbed by his hair. 

**“I challenge you to a duel. For captaincy.”** His former crewmate snarled in his face.

When Spain’s own men shot him, England had enough. He wasn’t about to let his ship get taken over by honorless men who weren’t even loyal to their own country. He kicked the tub off its legs and it crashed and tumbled into three of the men hemming him in, the others aiming to fire at him even as he went slashing after them. It happened so fast he actually managed to catch their hands with the blade and slice deeply sending three pistols to the ground, he rushed and skewered a man before he could recover and was already clashing swords with the next when someone from across the room finally shot him in the back. 

England fell to his knees, his column of gravity completely crumbled by the bullet through his spine. It was an unfortunate shot, those always took longer to heal, and he was hopelessly paralyzed from the chest down, couldn’t feel anything, neither pain nor agency to move. He cursed and even after he had fallen England managed to swipe at some Spanish ankles with his sword, set more men bleeding, before someone stomped on his back, his arm, kicked the sword out of his hand and England knew he was beaten. He went still, waiting and biding his time for the wound to heal. These bastards had no idea who they were messing with. He craned his neck around to see how Spain fared and felt himself go faint when he saw what his own men were doing to him. 

**“A duel?”** Spain sneered,  **“you’ve already shot me.”**

Spain’s old crewmate shrugged noncommittally, other crewmates laughing conspiratorially  **“a swordfight, then.”** And he swung Alfanje through the air, slicing through the heavy red curtain around the bed as if it were nothing.

**“I’ll need my sword, then,”** Spain snapped back. Watching him wreck England’s quarters and deciding there and then he wanted nothing to do with his mutinous crew anymore. Such disrespect. 

The crewmate began strolling around the room, he walked over to England, kicking him in the face where Spain had scratched him. He bent down to mutter to England in English. “Your kitten has claws, I see.” As he approached the bedside, he picked up trinkets and displaced them on purpose, eyeing jewels with a greedy green eye. It was going so well. Spain was on the floor, England paralyzed, and Mateo… well, he was dead. Oh, that reminded him. 

He turned back to Spain and began removing something from the inside of Spain’s richly colored and finely embroidered captain’s coat. Spain expected it to be another pistol, or maybe even another blade. Instead, it was an arm, and Spain’s stomach rolled violently like a wave cresting over the side of a vessel. He glanced over at England in horror, instantly recognizing the tattoo around the bicep of the left arm. 

He walked to the window, opening it and tossing the appendage out of it. It was then that he noticed the dueling pistols in their case on one of the chests, he snickered darkly. “ **Or… we could use these.”** He opened the box, weighing the two guns before picking the heaviest one, he carelessly threw the other across the floor at Spain. 

Spain reached for the gun, struggling to his knees.  **“You’re going to regret the day you were born.”** His tone sent shivers down everyone’s spines. 

Spain was grabbed by his hair, pulled to his feet, and dragged out onto the deck. 

**“You’re going to regret a lot more than me,** **_captain.”_ ** Thrown to the floor, he groaned, not six steps from the rails of the ship.  **“Get up!”**

He didn’t move, breathing heavily and clutching his stomach, the bleeding was lessening, but it still hurt incredibly to move. 

**“Get up, you fucking whore!”** He screamed into his face, spittle flying onto Spain’s skin.

Spain grumbled under his breath, finding his feet, but almost being knocked over by the crewmate as their backs touched and he jabbed him with his elbow. 

The crewmate started counting aloud, faster than the usual pace of a duel. 

Spain turned on  _ five,  _ shooting the man in the meat of his shoulder. If his men weren’t about to fight fair, then neither was he, staggering and leaning against the railing heavily as he fought to catch his breath. If he hadn’t been so wounded by England days earlier then he would’ve had a more sure shot, but his arm was still weak, shaking, and the kickback meant his aim was off. He cried out and turned to face Spain, hair falling into rage-filled eyes. 

**“Oh, now you’re going to pay.”** A single shot. That was all it took. He fired at Spain, hitting him dead center of his chest, and sending him toppling backward, the back of his knees hit the rail and he fell back over it, barely managing to grab onto the rail. He grunted as he tried to haul himself back up, his fingers slipping against the painted, brine-covered wood and his heart bleeding out over him. His impromptu robe fluttered into the ocean, leaving him exposed… He could feel his life draining from his body, the shot to his chest bearing more weight than he’d thought. He felt his fingers slipping, scrambling for a better grip. He looked down as a wave came crashing into the boat, sweeping away the bloodied fabric that had fallen from his body, feeling nausea wash over him. 

This was it. 

This was where he died. 

The crewmate approached him, looking over the side and smirking. The waves were rough, lashing against the side of the boat, and the crewmate reared his hand wielding Alfanje back, ready to swing at Spain’s hands and send him tumbling to a watery grave. 

England had been dragged out to watch the duel but the first thing he focused on was the state of his crew. Where were his men? As the Spanish crew dumped him abruptly on the deck he could peer between their legs and see his men sat in a circle around the mast, a length of thick rope cinched around them all immobilized against the wood. Some of them were bleeding and injured, some of them were completely out of it, but most of them seemed fine. Already England could put together what happened. A blackout drunk crew was fun when he was in command but they were terrible at squashing a sober prisoner uprising. 

The real question was how did they get out in the first place? As England twisted and craned painfully on the ground he looked at all the faces of the Spanish surrounding him but couldn’t see Andorra. He had to have been the one to let them out, how else could it have happened? England growled to himself and thudded his forehead against the deck in frustration. He should have bound him in chains the moment he was revived. 

He stayed down, stayed quiet, focused all his energy on healing his spine enough for his nerves to work again but jerked his head up when he heard the first shot fired in the duel. It was Spain, taking the initiative, thank God, but it didn’t look like it would be enough. The man was injured, yelling but still aiming, still moving closer, and then another deafening shot and Spain hit against the rail of the ship, toppled over it, and caught himself. 

Spain clung on, but his grip was slipping, he looked around frantically, eyes landing on the rigging leading up the mast. 

A flash of lightning split the sky and the crewmate brought his sword down as thunder rumbled overhead. Spain let go of the rail before he could slash his fingers, clinging onto the rigging just a few feet away and using his momentum to fling himself back onto the deck.

He landed on his feet, crouched and braced on his hand, ready to lunge forward. 

The man’s blade bit deep into the hardwood right where Spain’s hands had been and for a second he was forced to yank against it to pull it free.

Spain’s eyes locked onto the dueling pistol on the deck at the same time as the man’s, they both rushed forward, the crewmate abandoning Alfanje in favor of the gun. Spain grabbed it first, skidding along the floor and aiming and pulling the trigger, the pistol clicked, but no bullet discharged. 

“Fuck!” 

The former crewmate jeered a laugh and Spain smacked the gun against his face, scrambling from under him and reaching for Alfanje. He tugged it free from the wooden rail, twisting his body and swinging the blade at his enemy. In one swoop, his head detached from his neck, and his body crumpled on top of Spain. Covered in blood, Spain stood, gripping him by the scruff of his shirt and tossing him aside like he was nothing.  The intense rage and focused murder meant he barely felt it, immune when he was the one dispatching his own men. 

**“Who’s next?!”** Spain roared.

Three of his former crewmates lurched forward, and Spain charged at them, sliding under the middle one’s legs, and spinning to cut him down, slashing across his lower back and paralyzing him from the waist down. He turned to the other two, seeing them stood stock still, staring at the far end of the deck where the entrance to the brig was. 

**“You… you’re meant to be dead!”** One of them exclaimed. 

**“Yeah, turns out that’s not so easy anymore.”**

Spain followed the voice with his eyes, seeing his first mate standing with a pistol in his right hand, and a lack thereof where his left hand should’ve been. Spain’s stomach rolled as he looked on at his friend, he’d already known the limb was lost, but it was something else to actually see the crude laceration across his bicep. 

England was glad to see the return of the older more ferocious version of Spain. He was so good-natured and easy-going it was easy to forget just how ruthless he could be when pushed to do so. England remembered it though, was old enough and fought him enough to know that he was wily and wild. Would rip a man’s throat out by his teeth if he couldn’t get a hold of a sword. England actually laughed when he saw his men scrambling to contain him, clearly not expecting the acrobatics, and with everyone distracted England figured he could do something to add to the chaos and help him out. 

He took a deep breath and fought down the fiery burning pain of reconnecting nerve endings. Like sparks and burning and shooting tingles. He still couldn’t move anything below his pecs but he could use his arms to drag himself forward. He winced and cursed with each movement, it hurt enough to make him want to pass out again, just let Spain handle it or not. But the fact it was  _ his _ ship under duress meant his pride demanded action. He grit his teeth and kept pulling himself along, inch by agonizing inch, ignoring the shouting and the boots pounding around him until someone ran by, shouted something in Spanish he didn’t catch, and suddenly his agonizing snail’s-pace journey was brought to an abrupt bloody halt as a sword slipped between his ribs and skewered him to the deck. 

England roared in pain and felt himself nearly pass out, only a vague annoyance that his attacker hadn’t even bothered to stick around, just pinned him to the deck like an insect specimen and then went running off to fight someone else. It was insulting. He was a nation, the Kingdom of England, and he wasn’t going to be treated like some trophy to be collected later after the dust had settled. 

Using the last of his strength, and summoning more that he didn’t even know he had, England screamed as he twisted his arm behind him to grip the naked blade and pull at it. He could feel it slicing deeply into the meat of his hand but it didn’t hurt compared to the wrenching necessary to dislodge the sword in his back. England passed out and woke up several times before he’d wiggled it enough to fall out of him. 

He sagged against the deck and then flung the sword skittering across the wood toward his men tied to the mast. One of them got his feet on it and awkwardly was able to pick it up like a monkey, flip it so it landed against the ropes, and between two of them working together they managed to slice and fray it free. Once one was cut, the entire rope went slack and suddenly all of England’s men were surging into the one-sided battle, suddenly turning the tides again. 

England couldn’t move another inch and let himself pass out the second his men roared to their feet. He would probably die when he fainted, surely, but that wasn’t such a bad thing when he couldn’t even breathe without blood gurgling in his chest. 

Spain’s eyes locked with Mateo’s as England’s men ran free, spilling from their prison, for a moment he was awestruck as they clashed with the remainder of his men. It was then that he saw England sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood, perilously close to being trampled in the fight. He nodded at Mateo and ran forward, dodging attacks and flying weapons from both sides, he fell to his knees in front of England, discarding Alfanje. 

“England, hey, England!” He shook him but had no response. Spain sighed in the back of his throat and hooked his arms under England’s arms, dragging him away from the battle, knowing just how crucial it was not to interrupt the revival with more injuries. 

He leaned him against the wall of the captain’s cabin so he was sitting.

**“Not so fast.”**

He turned to see one of his former crew bearing down on them, armed with one of the swords that were taken from their ship. But then he was cut down, Mateo standing wielding a bloody Alfanje in his right hand with a scowl on his face. 

**“Mateo,”** Spain met his first mate’s eyes,  **“cover us, please.”**

Mateo hesitated, still scowling. But then he turned, facing the assailants and bracing himself to ward off any attackers. But after England’s men got free the few free Spaniards had their hands full just staying alive and the few remaining ones were quickly overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Once it was clear they had no chance the rest of them threw down their weapons and sank to their knees in sullen surrender. They were quickly rounded up and shoved against the very same mast the English crew had been tied to, using the same rope even, and Spain left out a pained sigh of relief seeing them detained instead of killed. But he knew when England woke up, that’s when the real fight for their lives would begin…

He waited, on his knees for England to wake, anxiety rolling in his gut when he thought of the consequences his crew would face. He moved from his knees to sit beside England, then back to kneeling in front of him within a matter of minutes, then back to being beside him, restlessly moving from position to position. He lost track of time like that. He felt Mateo’s eyes on him, watching him shift restlessly and he turned to smile at his first mate, hand resting on England’s knee. 

Mateo didn’t smile back, his features etched with an unreadable expression. 

**“Are you okay?”** Spain asked, eyes rolling over Mateo’s body, where his left arm should’ve been. Mateo stayed quiet.  His wound oozed and spoke for itself.

Spain looked down at the deck, then looking up to England’s face. 

Between dying, the rest of the battle, surrendering and corralling - at least 45 minutes had passed. England’s crew was well-trained to protect his body and follow common sense until he revived. They wouldn’t kill anyone until their leader returned, but who knew what the verdict would be when he did. 

Eventually, after a full hour had passed since his last breath, England felt a shocking jolt and a drowning gasp as his lungs suddenly heaved and his heart quivered awake. He shuddered and felt all his nerves connect and reattach and the piercing ache of shaking off death. His ribs still hurt terribly and his breathing was labored. The sword wound hadn’t healed over completely, just a fragile tissue paper-thin layer between his lungs. Shit, it hurt to breathe… England wiggled his toes, rolled his ankles, and forced himself to lean forward with a low groan. 

“At least I’m not paralyzed anymore. No thanks to you,” England paused, fuck, it was hard to insult and berate with only one lung… “I should have executed your men like normal… Feh… Not gonna… Fuck up this time… “ England raised an arm to his ribs, braced himself back against the wall, and slid slowly, painfully up to his feet. He took a deep, fiery painful breath deep into his chest so he could say his next statement in one loud gasp. 

“We’re gonna make every last one of those dogs walk the plank!” England raised his sword and all his men followed suit, cheering and raucous as a murder of crows. 

Spain met him with a steely gaze, still on his knees. “Hold on now, I can’t let you. They’re my men - my responsibility.” He wasn’t sure what else he could say, how could he defend his men’s actions? He couldn’t. But all he could do was hope. 

**“Cap’n, are you serious? They betrayed you!”** Mateo snarled, passing a glance towards the men tied to the mast and the few bodies that covered the deck. He could understand, in a way, not wanting to lose the good times they shared. But Spain was like a bird, pierced by an arrow in the middle of battle, and that shouldn’t be ignored. 

**“But--”**

**“We had good times, but their actions are unforgivable and they should be punished accordingly.”**

**“But…”**

**“Spain!”** Mateo barked, the nation falling silent and looking down from where he was kneeling on the deck.

“Hey… Andorra… Leave it be. He can’t, fuck-  **he can’t help it.** ” England had already been swapped into a new captain’s jacket, a fresh pistol at his side, his sword found, retrieved, cleaned, and sheathed into his belt. It was like a well-oiled machine how his men did everything for him, swarming and surrounding him. It was like they’d practiced resuiting him for battle immediately after death. Despite still trembling in pain with every breath, he still had instantly reassumed the finery and dignity of a captain with his crew under complete control. 

“But, just because… He has the instincts… to defend mutineers… doesn’t mean I do,” England panted. “I’m not so cruel… as to make him watch though… Take them to the brig!” England shouted as loud as he could which was pathetic to his ears, but still enough to set his men in motion and start jostling Spain and Mateo down into the hold and lower. 

“Don’t blame him for defending his own slimy men… He’s gonna hurt no matter what… It’s his duty as a nation…” England muttered, watching the two struggle as they were dragged away. “You’ll get it sooner or later… Andorra…” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andorra is a small landlocked country between France and Spain. It's ruled by co-princes - a French head of state, and a Spanish bishop. 
> 
> If you don't like OC countries just go enjoy the first chapter over again. We're having fun so don't mind us, lol.


	4. Break Like Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drowning, desiring, dancing - the nations choose their poison.

England watched with no great pleasure as his men dragged the two nations away, Spain already struggling and screaming his fool head off. He knew he wasn’t going to be calm and collected for the next part and he didn’t want to watch the process of Spain experiencing each death. It was his own fault for bonding so deeply with traitorous dogs. Maybe he’d learn something this time. 

His men were already deciding amongst themselves who would go first, a thick wooden beam extended out over the rail, and soon the first victim was yanked up and dragged over to England. 

“This is the man that stabbed you, Captain!” His men explained, and England felt a weary grin light up his face. 

“We’ll just return the favor then, right boys?” England didn’t even twitch as his sword was drawn and sunk into the man’s chest in a single smooth motion. His eyes bugged out, a groaning scream, but the wound wasn’t fatal. England had made sure of that. 

“Walk the plank!” The man was dragged off and heaved up on the beam, jeering and shouting and mocking as he shuffled slowly, painfully to the end at the point of yet more swords. He fell in quickly, the wound overcoming his ability to stand and he tumbled overboard and out of sight. 

“Who’s next?” England asked. Another Spaniard was dragged before him, fighting and snarling and spitting and England decided to believe this was the one who’d shot him. “Turn him around,” 

As soon as he was flipped England shot a bullet right into his spine, the same spot he’d been paralyzed from. The man jerked and his lower half went nerveless - his men ended up just rolling him over the side into the watery depths. 

England dispatched the rest of them in much the same way. Some got rope tied around their ankles to hobble their ability to tread water, some were clapped in heavily rusted irons he wanted to get rid of anyway, more than one was shot or stabbed, but by the end of it, the results had been the same - every single one of them, whether a lifelong sailor or strong swimmer, had all drowned in minutes, if not succumbing sooner. 

His men taunted their deaths, made a spectacle of it and they were in a celebratory mood having repelled a mutiny and retaken their ship in an eventful morning. More than one of them nudged hopefully at the empty rum barrel and England knew they were just waiting for his signal to get rip-roaring drunk all over again. He wasn’t in the mood himself but knew he wouldn’t hear the end of it if they didn’t properly celebrate their victory and he told his first mate to bring up another barrel without making a scene of it. Treat the wounded, keep our heading fair. They could drink but had to keep the ship sailing. 

England felt his thoughts lingering toward the bottom of the ship where he knew Spain must have been feeling the deaths, knew he must be suffering. He decided to go pay him a visit and try to get him back to reality. Those men had to go, regardless of how he felt, and the sooner he got over it the better. 

\----

“You bastard!” Spain shouted, making Mateo flinch. “You better not…” tears rolled down his cheeks, “kill them the way I think you’re going to…”

Mateo sat on the floor of the brig not daring to look at his captain as Spain exhaled slowly. He was perched opposite him, back pressed against the wall. Chancing a glance, Mateo watched as his captain grew paler, huddled around himself and shivering like he was afraid. Was he that concerned for a group of men obsessed with mutiny and killing him?

Anxiety and fear thrummed a new tune in his veins and he nibbled his lip until it bled. He hated waiting, he hated the anticipation of what was to come. It was like being at the helm, watching a storm grow nearer but being powerless to redirect the vessel in time. All he could do was steer the ship through murky waters of rage and fear to emerge victorious. Except, there was no victory in death, and when his men died, a piece of him would too. 

He knew the exact moment it started, the asphyxiating sensation of water filling his lungs, he coughed in an attempt to clear it. It only made it worse. He felt the first man’s life fading in the ocean waves. Then the second man was lost and he felt more of the same, only  _ stronger.  _

_ Three.  _

**“Hey, Spain, are you okay?”** Mateo finally asked, moving closer to his captain, his lips started to turn blue, features going pale. 

Spain nodded, but it wasn’t very convincing.

_ Four. _

**“You’re not.”**

**“I am!”** He snapped suddenly, his whole body shaking.

_ Five. _

Fire licked at his insides, ire flowing through his veins with every cruel heartbeat, reminding him that he was alive, but his crew was dying. 

_ Six… _

Drowning was supposed to be silent, Spain didn’t think that was accurate. Nothing about this was quiet. Goddammit!

_ Seven… _

Bargaining was useless in his situation, so he held his tongue as tears of anger streaked down his face, this was all his fault...

**“Spain…”**

**“Don’t call me that!”**

_ Eight… _

There was a hole in his chest where his heart used to be, decimated dreams of ruling the open ocean coming to an end right before his eyes. 

_ N--Nine… _

He was the lucky one… his own mortality…  _ immortality.  _

_ T-- Ten...  _

They were nearly gone now… 

_ E--Eleven... _

The last light was snuffed out.

He was alone. 

**“Antonio, then.”**

Spain jostled at the mention of his human name, how long it’d been since anyone had used it. A fresh bout of tears escaped from the corners of his eyes. He wailed, screaming loud enough to be heard from the deck. Mateo startled, closing the distance between them and grabbing Spain’s bicep in an attempt to calm him, ground him. He winced as Spain gripped him in return, fingernails digging into his skin and leaving crescent moons, drawing blood as Spain lamented, grief washing over him in violent, tumbling waves. He buried his head in his chest, hands coming up to his cadaverous face and hiding his eyes, clawing at them, dragging his bloody fingertips across his face and streaking it with Mateo’s blood, his own being added to the mix as his nails broke skin. 

Then, he fell silent against Mateo, unconscious from grief, from pain, from his countrymen’s suffering and ultimately their death. 

Mateo held him, then, using his arm to hold him close to his chest. He cocooned him, watching the entrance to the brig with weary eyes, waiting for the moment someone would return to release them. Although he had a feeling it would be a long time before then. 

Spain’s face was white, crimson lines covered his cheeks like he’d gouged out his eyes, dried blood crusting over his face, his lips were blue, and even in a state of unconsciousness, he shook. Mateo looked away, looking to a corner of the brig where he’d been hopelessly outnumbered, pinned down and his arm lobbed off like ripping the legs off of a spider, one by one until there was no way to escape…

The stump that remained hurt with a dull throb and a sharp ache at the same time, distracting but not all-consuming as he would have imagined losing a limb to be like. He wondered if it was because he'd become a nation… 

Mateo heard his footfall before he saw him, he was honestly surprised that someone was coming down, he could hear the shouting and celebrating, and he was grateful that Spain was still out cold. He soothingly stroked Spain’s hair although he didn’t dare try to clean him up, he wanted an explanation as to why he’d done what he did, why he was streaked in blood, and why he’d broken down. 

He understood the death of his crew would impact him, it’d impact even the hardiest of pirates. But, he was detached, away from the deaths, so why had he acted like he’d felt everything? 

He looked up to see England entering the brig. 

England glanced at Spain who was out cold, face pinched and tinged blue. He could tell he’d been busy drowning. He was being held protectively by Andorra who glared at him once he entered. England sighed and felt exhausted already.

“I don’t suppose you’ve picked up any English… Have you?” England asked wearily. 

Mateo didn’t respond, instead, he gently laid Spain on the floor, struggling to stand with just one arm, and walked over to the bars gripping one tightly.

**“What the fuck was that? Why did he… what was that?”** Mateo repeated for lack of anything better to say.

England sighed and glanced back at Spain, making sure he was truly out cold, and decided to make an exception. 

**“You have to learn English if you’re gonna survive on my ship,”** England said in Spanish.

Mateo’s eyes widened in surprise, he’d heard it muttered before, he knew England had some sort of grasp on Spanish, but not so fluently, he would’ve never guessed. He hated to admit it, but at that moment he recognized a little bit of respect for the captain. However, he mostly wanted to outdo him. So he nodded, looking down. 

**“I understand. What happened to Spain?”** He repeated, meeting England’s gaze before looking away.  **“Please, explain.”**

**"Simply put, he's just a sentimental idiot. As a nation, he's connected to his citizens. Even the ones who hurt him. He had to feel their deaths to sever that connection. If he wasn't so stupid he would have kept some distance so it wouldn't hurt as much, I'm sure you know how close he was to those men. That's why he's feeling it,"** England explained.

Mateo looked thoughtful,  **“so, he grew too attached…”** He turned to Spain who was still lying on the floor, his lips pressed into a tight line before looking back to England.  **“And what now? Will he be okay?”**

**"Sure. He just experienced drowning eleven times in a row. He'll be** **_fine_ ** **,"** England said sarcastically. 

Mateo gave him an unimpressed look, going to cross his arms over his chest but looking down when his right fell to his side.  **“And what about me?”**

**"How connected are you to your home?"**

**“I… haven’t been there in almost twenty years. I ran when the French forces annexed Andorra and killed my father.”** Mateo looked down, feeling awkward under England’s scrutinous stare. **“I wandered around Carche and Murcia for a while, then I met Spain ten years ago.”**

**"Welcome to the world,"** England said wearily.  **"Sucks you're starting short-handed. I've never lost a limb myself, but maybe it'll grow back. Pretty sure that happened to Ivan back during the Mongol raiding days…"**

**"Ivan?"**

**"Russia to you,"**

Mateo nodded,  **“One more thing, teach me English. Please.”**

There was a quiet groan from behind them, Spain muttering to himself and sobbing softly as he curled into a ball on the floor, he was shivering and Mateo turned back to England.  **“Teach me.”**

England eyed Andorra suspiciously but finally heaved a sigh and decided. 

“Ah, what the hell. I’ll do it when I’m in the mood.  _ Si, _ you dumbass.  **You’ll have to get Spain to teach you the rest though. And don’t speak Spanish when you’re on deck.** ”

Mateo nodded in thanks, smiling genuinely for the first time since he’d boarded the ship, he turned back to Spain, resting his hand on his shoulder and helping him sit up. Spain was like a dead weight in his arms and Mateo huffed struggling to keep him upright with just one arm. 

**“Come on, Spain.”**

Spain remained silent, but the tears had stopped, for now. 

“Well Spain, did the drowning help clear your head ol’ boy? Still think it’s wise to treat your humans like friends?” England immediately reverted to his snide cruelty when he saw Spain was awake. 

Spain didn’t respond, just looked to the floor and whispered a broken, “I’m sorry.” 

Mateo’s eye widened at the crack in Spain’s voice, feeling a bubbling rage in his stomach at how submissive Spain was behaving. 

England frowned, there was no reason for him to be moping like this. 

"God, don't be so melodramatic. Geeze. It's pathetic. Come on and get up, we can have a drink in my quarters," England said sniffily, making sure his offer didn't sound too familiar. 

Spain stood, looking down at his feet as he walked along the floor to the entrance of the brig. Mateo watched, expression slipping into a frown and he grabbed Spain’s wrist.  **“No.”** But Spain’s wrist twisted from his grasp and he scowled at England.  **“Hurt him and I** **_will_ ** **kill you. Over, and over, and over again.”**

England scoffed.

"Threaten me after you've died a few hundred times yourself. Spain, you need to work on his manners, seriously."

Spain stayed quiet, wiping at his tears and the crusted blood on his face and some of it flaked off onto the back of his hand. 

He’d been bathed in his own blood far too many times over the last few days. He was still naked, body exposed and bloodied, weeping wounds where he’d been shot twice finally starting to congeal.

England didn't fail to notice how ragged Spain looked, similar to how he felt. Just because they were capable of walking around following a fatal wound didn't mean it felt comfortable. He didn't typically bathe too often but since they'd both died and been coated in blood he figured they could both use it. He'd order his men to start heating some water on the way up. 

Spain followed him, two paces behind him at all times, not daring to look up. He felt so utterly and completely broken inside… His eyes were sunken, the skin around them bruised, and his skin was sallow and washed out. 

Once they were in his quarters England fetched a cup and poured some brown spiced rum into it and pressed it into Spain’s hands. 

“Don’t touch anything,” England warned. He started moving around the room, righting the tub that had been kicked over, tossing the ruined tatters of the curtains into a pile in the corner, sweeping the shattered crockery and china off to the side with his boot. He’d get someone in here later to thoroughly clean it. Actually…

“You and Andorra are gonna clean this room top to bottom, to make up for your mutinous crew. But that’s later…” 

Spain nodded, staring vacantly at his reflection in the cup of rum. He sighed softly, looking up at England as he tidied up. “I can do it now…” 

“Not smeared with blood, you’re not,” England warned. It was disquieting seeing the typically sunny Spain so quiet, so subdued. He wanted to say something comforting but had no idea where to start, what to say. Luckily he didn’t have to think about it because his men stepped into the room at that moment carrying a massive metal basin full of steaming hot water. They shuffled over and poured it into the tub; nodded to England and retreated from the room. England strode over and poured soap and salt into the bath, an herbal sachet, and quickly the air turned fragrant and aromatic. England stirred the water gently with his fingertips, testing the warmth. It was perfect. 

“Alright love, get in. I’ll wash you,” England said gently. 

Spain left his cup of rum on the table beside the bed, walking over to the tub and climbing in gracelessly, he took a seat and settled down, a mix of the rich aromas and warm water easing his aching tense muscles and tender skin, he sighed softly, body sagging against the side of the bath as he closed his eyes. 

England silently took up the same sponge they used last time, though it felt completely different in his hand now. Instead of rubbing his skin off he gently and carefully smoothed the sponge down his limbs, warm water and bubbles, and attentive circling motions. He focused on Spain’s knuckles, rubbing between each finger, methodically roving his way across his body. When he came across a mortal wound that had healed he didn’t even try to touch it with the sponge, just lightly ran his fingertips across the tender brand new skin, rising away the residual orange-brown smears of dried blood around them. 

Spain let him do what he had to do, once taut muscles were starting to flag, his energy was non-existent, eyes welling up at the gentle treatment when he really, really didn’t deserve it; it was his fault his crew were dead. 

England was silent as he watched Spain sink deeper and deeper into himself. Even as he tried to scrub him clean and wash away the feeling of conflict, the feeling of guilt, of death, he saw Spain steadily wrapping further and further into himself. England hated it. He wasn’t gonna let him just disappear when he was trying so hard. 

“Hey… Spain. Where are you right now?” England asked quietly, dropping the sponge to stand up and shrug off his jacket, flip his shirt up over his head, careful of his ribs. 

For a minute, Spain was confused by the question, what felt like a million answers roaming around his head yet he was unable to grasp even one of them. 

Finally, "your ship. In a tub." He didn't answer the question where it silently asked about his mental state. He didn't know the answer. 

England tilted his head and his mouth quirked in a rueful smile. Neither of them was good at this part. At comforting and being vulnerable. England had other skills though, and if Spain didn’t want to talk that was fine with him. Doing it this way was easier anyway. 

England didn’t ask any more questions, just dropped his trousers and kicked them under the bed. He lifted a leg and straddled the tub before gingerly lowering himself directly into Spain’s wet lap. The water displaced spilled over the rim, splashing down around them but England didn’t care. Everything was already wrecked. This was just the only thing he could think of to offer. 

Spain's eyes widened a fraction. "What are you--" he was cut short by the sensation of England's skin against his. 

"What do you think? Dumbass… do you need everything spelled out for you?" England said with a scowl, though there was an undeniable and unavoidable blush high on his cheeks as he said it. He nestled in closer, felt Spain's pelvis slot up nicely against his backside, and picked up the sponge. He started slowly and luxuriously cleaning himself, dipping into the water between them, licking the sponge slowly and deliberately down his limbs like an old cat, wriggling and grinding his hips the entire time he worked. 

It took a moment for Spain to realize what was going on, all the sensations and sudden stimulation feeling like a shock to the system. But as he watched England clean himself, felt his hips moving against his… he found himself wanting more.

With their awkward position, he couldn't move his hips much, it took strength he didn't have to roll his hips. So he refrained. 

It took a while but his cock began to stiffen, fitting between England's ass cheeks. He felt dizzy. No way was this happening. He craned his head backward, leaving his throat on display, a small moan escaped his lips and his hands twitched with a want to touch him. Tentatively he did so, reaching for his chest and his fingertips ran along the plains of his torso softly, teasingly. He stopped over his nipples, thumbs rubbing over them and feeling the soft flesh harden at his ministrations. 

England gave a soft open-mouthed cry, arching his chest and dipping his head down to encourage the touch. He bit his lip and breathed through his nose, all the while aware of Spain's growing length under the water. The sensation made his hips twitching encouragingly - it had been far too long since he'd last ridden dick and he wanted it even more now that he could feel it so close.

Spain felt hot, his cheeks stained with watercolor blush as he continued playing with his nipples, rolling them between his fingertips and tugging gently, testing the waters. It was overwhelming, and he hid his face in the juncture of England’s neck and shoulder, nosing up the column of his neck, tongue laving over his pulse point before nibbling on his earlobe. 

"Aahhh, yes. Spain, keep that up…" England rolled his neck to give him better access, could feel his dick swelling until the crown of it rose above the water level. He reached down into the shared water, began stroking up and down along the underside of Spain's cock, pressing it more intimately against his crack, surrounded by him on all sides. 

Spain moaned softly, rolling his hips against England's ass. 

"Fuck…" He cursed, one hand traveling to England's ass and pressed a finger to his hole. "Do you want me to use anything?" He asked, massaging his hole.

In response, England spread his legs wide and sank down deeper into the tub, grinding hard on Spain's dick. He didn't want to run the risk of him thinking he was in charge, or that this was anything other than nations licking each other's wounds. He pushed against Spain's fingers with his own, forcing him to breach through the water-warmed muscle, and slipped his finger in after him so they were both crooked inside him. 

The sensation made England tip forward and lean against Spain's chest, thrusting his hips back against the digits. 

"I'm not gonna break… Spain, just do what feels right…" England panted, already working another of his fingers into his ass so that the muscle twitched around three in total. Between the warm bath, the lack of touch there for months, and the combination of fingers stroking his insides, England was afraid he may come undone before Spain could even get his cock in. 

Spain began scissoring his fingers, stretching him out before hitting his prostate. He massaged the sensitive area inside England, relishing in how England moved against him. With his free hand, he gripped England's cock pumping it a few times before he began stroking the tip with deft fingertips, teasing his slit with his thumb. 

"Shiiit… Fuck you and your men," England ground out, feeling the need to curse and be mean when Spain made him feel so good if only to balance it out.

If he'd had the willpower, he would've retorted with something snide and cruel,  _ you already killed them. Make up your mind.  _ But he didn't, he kept quiet and focused on making England feel good. It was the easiest way to an easy life on the ship… 

He removed his fingers and lined up with England, grabbing his hips and pushing him down onto his cock, rolling his hips in an upward thrust, giving him little time to adjust. A sick part of him wanted to get revenge for his own mistreatment, but the other half of him just… gave up. 

England gripped the edge of the tub and shoved himself down, felt Spain stretch and fill him as he thrust up, and the sudden inrush made England squirm and gasp and grab a hold of him. It burned, but in a good way, a soreness that would make him smile later, an ache he’d been craving. As he clung to Spain, keeping him still for the moment, letting himself fully feel that high of first penetration, England began licking his shoulder and proceeding to bite. Letting off just to get his teeth on a meatier chunk of flesh and biting again. He wanted Spain to have some marks from him as well, not just scars from traitors. 

Spain moaned as he bit him, fingers finding his scalp and lightly scratching with his nails, hands trailing down his back, leaving angry-looking scratches down his spine, letting up where he’d been shot and teasing tender flesh instead before continuing down to his ass. He palmed his pert ass, massaging the globes and pulling them apart, scratching hard as he did so. 

His fingers brushed against his stretched hole, and he worked a finger in alongside his dick, stretching him further and swiftly adding a second, setting up a fast pace scissoring his fingers inside him and brushing against his prostate with ease, rubbing along his silken walls as he began thrusting his hips at a slower speed. 

Despite his loss, his pain, his growing rage, he felt his need for dominance resurfacing. His instinct as a nation to utterly claim England in every sense of the word. He latched onto his throat and bit down, his forefinger and thumb of his free hand circling his cock and applying pressure at the base. England wasn’t going to cum until he was ready. Or… 

He smirked against England’s neck, starting to move his hand over his cock. He was going to make England come undone so many times that he’d be a quivering mess of cum and sweat and drool.

England could feel his control slipping, he couldn’t say anything when Spain stretched him even further, pressed his fingers in to rub directly against his prostate, dick still sliding in and out deeper inside him, he could only gasp and moan as his breathing picked up pace. A fine tension of pain, of power deferred, and pleasure all braided together until they were inseparable. When he grabbed him from the front as well, tugging him along with the tight circle of his finger and thumb, England couldn’t stop the whimper that emerged from the back of his throat. The water was sloshing around them, running down the sides, and England felt himself scrabbling against Spain, trying to move close, trying to find another angle, being driven mad by the stimulation. 

“S-Spain, that feels so… Ah, fuck fuck fuck!” England stuttered off in what could have been a sob, could have been a laugh, all he knew is he couldn’t stop the noises, the thrusts against the intense pressure of his ass, the tight encircled grip on his front… Shit, he was going to cum. He felt his balls drawing up, felt the pressure building, and glowing and concentrating inside him and flowing up to a peak. 

Spain felt him writhing, felt him clenching around him, he gasped, starting up a relentless pace. He wrapped his lips around England's skin, suckling a bruise there, grinding into him. Fuuuuck… he wriggled his fingers inside him. 

Fuck it. 

Back to his first plan. 

He suddenly stopped all his actions, laving over the bite on his neck, being the only thing he was doing as he tightened his grip on the base of England's cock. 

"Not yet." 

England thrashed and howled and scratched at Spain as his orgasm battered against the block, the denial so cruel and so complete he couldn’t even form words. He was enraged, desperate, dick rock hard to the point where it ached. 

“F-fuck you! Fuck you, piece of dog-shit eating, waffle-dick, fucking bastard! FUCK!” England was struggling to get out of the tub, to pull away from Spain recognizing he’d finally gotten through to him. He desperately needed to turn the tide back in his favor, get back in control, make Spain be the one to beg for release.

Spain just scoffed, letting England think he'd escaped before getting out the bath after him and tackling him to the bed with the least grace he'd ever shown and immediately mounted him again, pressing his chest into England's back and wrapping his hand around his cock. "Don't you wanna cum?" 

“Get off me, you fucking ingrate!” England yelled, kicking and trying to pull himself out from under Spain, but unable to. He could feel Spain’s dick, still hot from his ass laid over his crack again, the hand wrapped around his cock gripping him, holding him, halting him, and there was no way England would give Spain the satisfaction of hearing him beg. Despite his ass flexing up into the pressure, despite his cock leaking and drooling over Spain’s fist, despite the panting and the tiny squeaking moans that still trickled out as he struggled. It felt nice having his steady weight laid over him, though England would die before he admitted it. 

Spain hummed, close to England's ear. "I don't think you want me to get off you~ I think you want me  _ inside _ you." He slipped back inside him until their hips were flush against one another. He gripped his hips, rolling into his tight heat. "Mmm, you feel so good, England~" 

“F-fuuuck….” England said quietly, arms slowing to stillness as he was filled again, heart pounding, ass arching, and he couldn’t stop the shudder that worked through him from the top to the bottom when he felt the rough texture of Spain’s words in his ear, how he was pursuing him, claiming him. He hated it, and yet, couldn’t find the fight in him anymore. Not when it felt so good he might melt. He pressed his hands to the bed, bracing himself and grinding back on Spain’s cock, then thrusting forward into his grip. Fucking himself on Spain.

Spain bit his lip, groaning softly, it felt amazing. Being in control after being dominated, reducing England to a mess of a man who only had one thing on his mind, he felt powerful… he set up alternate paces for his hand and hips, not giving England a moment of stillness to catch his breath, no respite from pleasure. He wanted to reduce the nation further, until he was nothing more than a ball of pleasure, vibrating in his veins and every muscle wound tight. Then he'd cruelly rip it away again. He smirked. 

What had started as a consistent rhythm driving him up higher, quickly turned into an alternating movement, focusing on one pleasure before slowing and switching stimulation, all of it making him messier, wetter, harder, if even possible, but not coordinated enough to push him over the edge. England whined and tried to move his hips in a more utilizable motion, fighting against Spain when his thrusts slowed, bucking up against him to continue to motion himself. But it wasn’t enough and England could feel himself growling in frustration. He reached between his legs to hold Spain’s hand and try to move it faster. He was so close, if he could just have a tiny push… 

Spain stopped his hand again, only this time he kept moving his hips, torturously slow, barely moving at all. "Going soft on me, England?" He motioned to their hands, both wrapped around his cock. "Alright then~" he twisted his fingers into England's, immobilizing his hand. 

“Fuck you Spain, dammit, if you’re gonna do it, do it right! You piece of horse shit, cock-blocking mother fucker…  _ Ah _ !”

"You'll have to  _ show _ me the right way~ But first…" He suddenly started moving his hand again, speeding up his thrusts as well. His free hand wrapped around England's throat, not applying much pressure, but enough to make sure he knew it was there and who was in control. That left his full body weight resting on England's back, but he had a feeling England wouldn't mind. 

England wanted to retort but found himself unable to speak as a breath caught in his lungs transformed into a sob, the sudden movement and pressure spiking his already peaked pleasure. He felt his body trembling, the euphoria making his tendons pop into relief as he grabbed the blankets and held himself steady so Spain could properly plow him. He felt it rising in him once again, the denied release reforming, and with Spain pinning him to the bed, a hand wrapped around his throat England knew he couldn’t get away even if he wanted to. Though with his orgasm bearing down on him like a wave there wasn’t anywhere to escape anyway. 

He held his breath, contained his shaking, tried not to give Spain any indication he was about to spew, and felt awash in the sweet syrup sensation rising up inside him in tight loops. It was coming again, unavoidable and England went completely rigid as it crested. 

Spain was faring no better, muscles going taut as his orgasm drew closer. It was no longer about stopping England from cumming, more that he was so close he had to chase his own release. If he were a stronger man he would've kept England on the edge a lot longer. 

He kept the same pace, thrusting into him, although his hips began to stutter. He thumbed England's slit. 

"Cum for me." 

It was like the words were a trigger and England shouted hoarsely as his dick immediately responded, twitching and shooting his load as his hips shuddered and his hands fisted into the blankets still damp from their bathed bodies. He felt so fulfilled, more satisfied than he’d felt in years, and as the pleasure continued to take a long lap through his system England could feel Spain still thrusting and pounding into him, clearly being quite close himself. He tilted his hips up, a better angle, and held himself steady, clenching his ass and letting Spain take what he needed to get to the same place. 

Spain toppled over the edge faster than he ever cared to admit. With a rasping moan, he spilled inside England, hands coming to rest on his lower back to stabilize himself. It was a futile attempt at best.

Lying there, sandwiched between Spain and the bed, England felt himself starting to drift asleep. It was so warm, so comfortable, Spain’s weight was a reassurance, and his cum up England’s ass a testament. He hadn’t been that well-fucked since… Well, England couldn’t even remember the last time he let someone in like that. 

And while he’d been the one getting it up the ass, it had been his idea from the start and his attempt at helping Spain get out of his self-made hellhole. Laid out on the bed with him now meant he’d been thoroughly successful. England grinned lazily to himself but didn’t taint the moment by saying anything. So rarely were they both this quietly content around one another, it seemed a shame to break it with a tetchy remark. 

Spain closed his eyes, letting out a puff of air in the form of a sigh. He couldn't refrain from nosing England's nape, a silent thank you as he sighed again, the feeling of losing his crew was still there, still impossibly close to cresting over him again. He wouldn't forget it. But… at this moment he could say he was happy. 

Before either of them could make a move, suddenly a loud heralding call seeped through the walls of the cabin. 

“LAND HO!” 

England stiffened and the calm, contemplative quiet that had enshrouded them was instantly ripped away by the new information. Where England had been feeling generous and even slightly protective over Spain, now he felt pugnacious and vicious realizing what position he was in. Still pinned to the bed beneath his rival. It hadn’t mattered when they were hundreds of miles from the nearest land, the open ocean creating a perfect prison to contain and control him in. But on land he could fight, on land he could escape, on land he could call for other allies. 

England instantly began to fight as if his life depended on it. He pushed up against the bed, flung his head back to try and hit Spain’s face, swinging an elbow back to try and dislodge him. His cock was still inside him, weight still heavy down his back, England never should have let this happen… Should have just fucked him over the bed until he felt better instead. Why did he lower himself like this? He was so mad at the timing he wanted to spit. 

Spain jolted at the sudden change in England's behavior, barely being able to stop himself falling off the bed. The call of  _ land ho _ hadn't even registered in his mind with how fast England began to move. It was only when he'd toppled onto the floor, on his back that he lost his good headspace. 

"What the fuck?" 

England was on him the second he fell away, rolling over and leaping off the bed at him like a howler monkey. Their naked bodies collided and there was a flurry of limbs as England fought to regain control, eventually being able to get Spain’s wrists and slam them to the floor in his grip. 

“You’re not getting one over on me, Spain,” England sneered, back to his usual level of caustic contempt as he hissed in Spain’s face.

Spain was incredibly confused, starting to struggle and fight back, but England had thrown the first hit, and he clearly had the upper hand. Spain was speechless about England's actions, on the call of  _ land ho,  _ not so much. 

"Was that land? Are we near land?"

“Shut up!” England shouted, pulled back to hit him across the face. He was still recovering from being put in such a low position and was overly aggressive in re-establishing himself. The less Spain knew the better, and before he could react England scrambled off him and leaped at the sword in the corner. He felt better when his hand gripped the hilt, power once again tilted to his side as it should be. He turned and drew the blade, pointing it at Spain who was still sprawled on the floor. 

“Get up, dog. You’re going back to the brig with the other one. Now,” England said coldly, all of the familiarity from before completely vanished. 

Spain's blood ran cold as he struggled to his feet. His back hurt from being pushed onto the floor, a low ache hitting every notch of his spine. He grimaced, stepping forward towards England, glaring through his thick lashes. 

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Spain growled. "You're worse than your stinking English weather! Can never make up your mind!" He felt hurt, like all he was was England's toy. And he'd had enough. With a scowl, he stomped from the room, angry enough to take himself to the brig on his terms. He stopped on the deck, looking out over the horizon to see the land they talked about. It wasn't his land. He didn't want to know any more. He stepped down to the hold, lower still to the brig, realizing the gate was locked and cursing. 

"Spain?"

"Mateo." 

Back in the captain’s quarters, England took a minute to dress, finally feeling back in control once the layers and the trimmings were applied, sword and pistol on his hip, captain’s hat once again perched atop his head. He took up Spain's abandoned mug - the ungrateful idiot hadn’t even sipped it - and threw it back down his throat and breathed into the burn with an appreciative whistle. Feeling back in his skin, back in his skull, he didn’t know what had compelled him to submit to Spain like that, but it certainly wouldn’t happen again. He strode out to follow Spain down to the brig a few minutes later, making sure he actually ended up inside. He brought an old worn pair of trousers and a plain white shirt to give Spain something to wear. 

He strode down to the brig and saw the two nations standing on either side of the grate, talking quietly to each other and quickly went silent once they saw him. 

“Looks like I needn’t have worried. You’re right where you’re supposed to be. Here-” England tossed the clothes at Spain and pulled the keys from his inner jacket pocket. 

Spain scowled at him, scrunching his nose in dissatisfaction. **“I’d rather have you keep my dick warm instead of these lousy trousers.”** He sneered, earning a surprised reaction from Mateo. 

England wholly regretted letting Spain top him, he’d never hear the end of it. He had to reestablish the dynamic now or the rebellious attitude would spread like a weed. He stepped forward quickly, shoving Spain back against the bars of the brig, throwing an elbow up to brace against his windpipe and hold him in place. His other hand rested on his sword, ready to draw it at a moment’s notice. 

“What was that, Spain?”

"You heard me," Spain retorted with a frown. 

**"Stop it,"** Mateo demanded with a surprisingly gentle tone,  **"both of you. Stop it."**

England paused his throttling to glance at Andorra standing behind Spain. He sighed and relented, pulling back to let Spain stand on his own again. 

“Speak English in my presence. Teach him the basics. And if I catch even a hint of disrespect I’ll take your arm to match his, got it?” England glowered and unlocked the brig door, shoving Spain toward it. “Get in, asshole.”

Spain snarled at him as he entered the cell when really he was nervous to be back in the brig where he'd felt his crew die. 

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Spain. Andorra’s the one who fucked you and your men over. While you’re down here with him you should declare war on him or something,” England said harshly, kicking the bars so they gave an unpleasant clang.

Spain grimaced at the noise the bars made. Now was his chance to make it up to Mateo and he stood in front of him, holding out his arm in front of him as if to shield him. “It wasn’t him.”

“Who else would it have been, you sodding idiot! He was loose, could have slipped down and let them out at any time,” England snarled, an ugly scowl twisting his face.

“Look what they did to him. Does he look like someone who’d helped them escape?” Spain asked coldly, motioning wildly at his truncated arm.

England glared at him but did seem taken aback. 

“How should I know, you Spanish know now bounds… Honorless dogs… I can’t stand to look at you!” England fumed and stormed off, stomping back up the stairs to begin charting his way into the island.

Spain slid down the wall of the brig so he sat opposite Mateo, looking towards the outside of the brig. Mateo immediately laid into him about England. 

**"Why do you let him fuck you like a common harlot?"**

Spain's neck snapped forward, looking at his only remaining crewmate with wide eyes before muttering.  **"It's complicated…"**

Mateo nodded, remembering how England had said something similar…  **"will I end up like you two?"**

Spain shook his head,  **"you have morals and pride."**

**"So do you."**

Spain scoffed.  **"Do I?"**

Mateo looked down, unable to answer because he wasn't sure anymore. He used to think so. But now he'd seen a different side of Spain, and he didn't know if it was a good or bad side. 

Spain shook his head and looked around their cage. Though it had been flushed with a few buckets of seawater, the cell still had a stench of fear, blood, filth, and the lingering betrayal of his men and their subsequent deaths. If he’d had better morals, if he’d kept his pride intact, if he’d acted like a man instead of some bitch they all would have survived. 

**“You blame me for what happened,”** Spain said quietly, looking down at his bare feet. 

**“You mean the death of our crew or the loss of my arm?”** Mateo asked, looking down, itching the side of his nose as he waited for Spain’s answer. 

**“I did what I had to do, I thought it would save you…”**

**“You sure seemed to be enjoying it, being his bitch.”** Mateo spat as if he’d tasted poison on his tongue. 

Spain scowled, feeling his grief, his anger, his betrayal all boiling down into concentrated angst. 

**“What would you have me do? You see what England is like, you heard what he did to me in the hold. I’ve known that country for hundreds of years, believe me, it’s better to submit and use it to your advantage instead of fighting tooth and claw. If I can feel good instead of being ripped open then, of course, I’m going to act like that. I did it to save you all! Why, why did you let them out, Mateo? We were almost…. I secured safe passage for them,”** Spain trailed off, overwhelmed at the loss, by the unfair exchange.

**“You think I let them out?”** Mateo asked, hurt flashing in his eyes.  **“I was with England’s men all night by the fire, you can even ask the next one that comes down here with abysmal excuses for food and water. While you were taking it up the ass I was struggling to find a place to fit in, a prisoner that was hated by the other prisoners, a prisoner who had to sit with the very men who killed him, over, and over again because he felt safer than with his own men!”**

Spain felt as if he was being struck by the words. He hadn’t failed to notice the extent of the damage Mateo sustained, his body long since streaked with blood and lacerations. While England had given him a bath and new clothes Mateo was still filthy, caked in his own blood. He felt the anger fade back to guilt.

**“I’m sorry… Mateo… I never intended for any of this. I thought… I thought that by going along with him I’d be sparing you all from a worse fate. I didn’t want you to be hurt, but England… He’s brutal. Once he knew you were a nation...”** Spain trailed off, unwilling to admit that he wouldn’t have been able to stop it, even if he wasn’t shot dead at the time, that England would have pursued Mateo until he could claim his first death, his first revival.  **“It’s just what we’re like,”** Spain concluded helplessly. 

**“I don’t understand.”**

**“I know… It doesn’t make sense. But, eventually, you’ll feel it too,”** Spain said, looking over at his first mate. Saw the unsatisfied look on his face and tried to gather the words to continue, to explain. 

**“Once you’ve lived as long as we have you will understand. We’re all on our own, really. You can’t be with a mortal, trust me. You’d have to watch her age when you don’t. You can’t give her children, and eventually, inevitably she leaves, as all humans must. But when you’re with another nation… None of that matters. You can see them and they can see you and it’s not just a transitory moment. They won’t up and die on you after a couple decades. Eventually they’re the only ones who even remember you, who even recognize you. And… and it gets so lonely over the centuries, anyone who knows you becomes… important. Even if they’re the devil himself, at least he’s a devil who knows you…”** Spain stopped, he knew it sounded ridiculous. He could say it all he wanted but until Mateo experienced it himself it would be a hard concept to grasp. 

**“No,”** Mateo shook his head,  **“if they’re important, then why do you hurt each other? Kill each other? We’re all under the same sun, why are we fighting instead of being united?”** Mateo tried to cross his arms over his chest but his right arm fell limp.  **“Why is it that people fight? My whole family was cut down by fighting, I ran from my country because there was fighting. If I’m a nation doesn’t that mean I need to fight too? I don’t want to fight, ever since I’ve seen what war does… fighting is not something I want to do.”**

Spain looked at him miserably, not sure what to tell him. 

**“Fighting… Dying… Killing… I don’t want that for you either, but it’s not up to us. I don’t know why you were chosen, none of us do really, but… You can’t change it. You have to learn to live with it because you have no other choice. I’m sorry, Mateo… It’s just the way things are for us,”**

**“What happened to the Andorra before me? Did they die for the powers to transfer? Andorra’s history is rich and long, there’s no way I’m the first.”**

**“I met him a few times and then only briefly. He was reclusive, I don’t know what happened to him,”**

Mateo nodded solemnly, defeated by the idea that he'd eventually, probably, turn out like England and Spain, defeatist when it came to his fate. Then he realized he was already there… lying down to accept his fate. No. He wouldn't be like them. He was going to live his life, not just survive. 

\----

“Raise the sails!” England barked the order, his men scaling the rigging in a hurry as not to displease their already irate captain. England took the helm. 

He steered headlong into the wind, grinning as his hair, his hat, and his captain’s coat rustled in the wind, a cold northerly wind playing with sandy locks and threatening to blow his hat from his head. With a rhythmic  _ Heave! Ho!  _ He watched them hoist the sails like a well-oiled machine, securing the large canvases to the crossbar of the mast. 

He turned the wheel to starboard, the ship heeling with his direction. His men were back on the deck by the time he’d righted the galleon to run alongside the dock gangway, and his next order came immediately.

“Moor the ship!” 

Ropes flew the sky, not unlike the web of lies he was beginning to see all around him, had they always been there? Or was it something that’d only come about since the Spanish crew had come aboard? The boat drew nearer to the gangway, men on land securing the ropes to their mooring posts. 

As they docked in the harbor, England felt the irritation that had been pestering him finally sharpen into a suspicion. If Spain was right and it wasn't Mateo who let out the mutinous crew, then that meant there was a traitor in his crew as well. Someone had let them out, someone had given them guns before they ever went on deck. Even if Spain and Andorra were secure now it didn't mean he could leave them. Not with a rat on board… 

He groaned, already annoyed that he would have to babysit his nation hostages rather than getting drunk at the local port tavern. Once they were secure and the ship safely moored to the dock, he went down to retrieve them again. He'd keep them in line at the tip of his sword, the barrel of his gun. 

Spain and Mateo sat in silence, both looking up when they heard the familiar sound of England’s boots on the wooden stairs. 

“What do you want now?” Spain glowered, standing in defiance and Mateo joined him. Spain wasn’t wearing any clothes, instead, the clean articles given to him by England were on Mateo, far too tight for his broad shoulders, the intricate string that tied the front stretched to the max over his pectorals. Strings at his forearms unthreaded and discarded on the floor. The pants were equally as tight. Half mast up his calves and the fabric straining as he bent his knees to stand. 

He looked ridiculous, unworthy of being seen in the streets, but Mateo was grateful to be out of the bloody, tattered rags that he’d previously been calling pants, grateful to having the whip welts caused before he’d become a nation, unhealed and sore, finally covered, with every movement the shirt threatened to tear, much like the skin on his back. 

England felt his eye twitch at the sight. The gall of this young nation… 

“Come on, we’re going ashore. I’ll get you yet some more clothes since you don’t seem to be aware of your status… Or maybe you like showing off, huh Spain? Wanna parade through the town like that? We could see how long a line you’d make for pirates to tap that ass,” England threatened. He wasn’t going to share, but threatening to was always an effective warning. 

“Maybe they’d treat me with a bit more respect than you do, cock warmer,” Spain hissed, crossing his arms over his chest. He’d had enough of whatever their dynamic was, he was going to fight to the bitter end partly for his pride, partly so Mateo didn’t have to. 

Mateo looked between them, listening to their conversation. He’d always heard it, but never actually  _ listened  _ until now. English… 

"See what happens if you call me that in front of anyone. You won't be able to walk for a week," England growled, unlocking the brig and jerking the sword at them to move. He was using Alfanje, another thing he'd stolen that he wanted to shove in Spain's face. 

"Come on, move already," England said.

To Spain’s surprise, it was Mateo who moved forward first, showing little sign of nerves as he edged past England and turned, waiting for Spain. 

Spain followed close behind. Mateo was the last of his crew. He was going to protect him like he should’ve protected the others. In a moment of misjudgment, Spain reached forward, stroking along Alfanje’s blade as he walked past, and promising himself he’d hold Alfanje again. Proudly scream his battle cry with a whole new crew, large enough to require a second ship, Mateo at his side, not as first mate, but as a fleet captain. 

But for now, he was a prisoner, and no rose-tinted glasses would change that. Only he could. He would. 

England stalked behind them, kept his sword out though he knew it was most likely unnecessary. He still had to keep up appearances, especially with a traitor in their midst. Once on deck, he threw a larger set of clothes at Spain. 

"Switch or you'll look more ridiculous than you already do," England said, grinning as his men watched on. 

Spain and Mateo shared a glance, more questioning for Mateo than understanding, which left Spain to fill in the pieces. 

“Clothes,” he said, tugging at an invisible shirt at his clavicles, “switch.” his finger pointed between himself and Mateo. 

Mateo nodded in understanding, struggling to take off his shirt, when he’d finally got the fabric over his head there was blush high on his cheekbones, he quickly passed it to Spain, who gave him the larger clothes. 

They exchanged pants, Spain finally feeling human again in a set of clothes, and Mateo was still blushing with embarrassment as he tied the drawstring around his waist, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. He jolted when he felt a hand on his forearm, looking up to see Spain’s grin. “Ready?”

England watched as they changed and readied to disembark. It had been several weeks since his last visit to shore and England found himself looking forward to some comforts that being on land offered. He organized the watch details, leaving a few men aboard while others went out for errands and other supplies. Everyone worked quickly, knowing they would be free soon enough. England strode down the boardwalk with Andorra and Spain, already feeling the difference between sea legs and the perfectly still land they walked on.

“Stay in my sight in front of me at all times. If one of you disappears I’ll hurt the other one, got it?” 

Spain nodded, translating for Mateo, and then Mateo nodded too, both sharing a look of hatred at the situation they found themselves in. 

Mateo was about to ask something, about whether escape would be possible with it being two on one, but then he was reminded of the conversation in the brig. England knew Spanish just as well as they did. 

But he didn’t know Catalan. 

He was about to speak but was cut short before even opening his mouth. 

**“No.”** He looked over to Spain, who shook his head.  **“I know what you’re thinking, and my answer is no.”**

“Let’s go, first stop we gotta barter for some more lamp oil. Come on,” England had a whole list of things they needed, and as a captain certain duties only he could perform. They strode through the port, an open-air market set up around the harbor and there was the lively business of an island trading post. 

England made them carry everything, strolling leisurely behind them while they struggled under heavy boxes of supplies. They made it back to the ship to offload everything, the first watch shift already switching to the second, a definite sway in the second shift’s legs. They’d already visited the tavern apparently. And that’s where England wanted to head next. It’d been too long since he’d had a land-based home-cooked meal that wasn’t from his ship cook. 

As they strode off the boat and back down the boardwalk, England carried a pair of shackles in his belt just in case, and they noticed a man walking toward them. He was blond, wore a striking blue outfit, and his hips did a slight sashay as he moved, appearing more fluid. As they got closer England let out a groaning string of curses. 

“Not him… Ugh…” 

Spain’s eyes followed England’s gaze, stopping dead in his tracks.

“Nononono… he can’t see me like this.” 

Mateo looked confused, glancing at the pair with a questioning gaze before making eye contact with the man approaching them. 

“When I saw your ship pull in I thought surely my old friend England would love a visit, but little did I know you’d have sunny Spain with you! Looks like you’ve seen better days… And who might this be?” France strode closer with each word, nearly upon the three of them. 

Mateo looked between Spain and England, wondering what he’d said. He knew it had been a question, the lilt at the end had made that obvious.

**“He asked who you are.”** Spain filled in, and Mateo looked forward to him. He seemed familiar with Spain and England, was he another  _ important _ person? If so… then he could trust him enough to tell him his name. But then he remembered… Nations didn’t use their human names unless they knew a person well enough. 

“Andorra.” 

France stopped short, his bemused gaze sharpening with intense interest. 

“Oh, really?  _ Enchante _ , no doubt… Of course, he’d be with  _ you _ , Spain… The next one was bound to crop up around one of us,” France said, an accusing tone in his voice. “No matter… You should meet Lucille,” France prattled on, already changing the subject. 

“Lucille?” Spain questioned, wary of France’s tone. He looked to England, waiting for him to accept the invitation or deny it.

“Fuck off France, I’ve got enough on my plate with these two,” England said, hand on the hilt of his gun. 

“Oh, England, grouchy as always. Don’t you ever get tired of all the unnecessary bluster? Just because you’re short and dumb doesn’t mean you need to overcompensate with a bad attitude,” France sneered with a smile.

“France, I swear to god I’ll shoot you right in your smarmy face,” England drew the pistol and held it up at shoulder height, aiming right in between Spain and Andorra. 

“Touchy, touchy… My goodness, England. It’s like you don’t care about your men at all, do you?” France said breezily, unconcerned at the gun pointing at him when he waved a hand and the sound of 20 rifles being cocked all at once filled the deck. The entire side of his ship on the other side of the dock was bristling with gun muzzles, aiming at the nations as well as England’s men on his ship. “There’s no need for violence, I’d prefer to swap stories over some wine, introduce you to some absolutely breath-taking women, and enjoy a hearty meal around a roaring fire, wouldn’t you? Sounds more enjoyable than scooping our guts from the deck and losing men for nothing…” 

England growled and positively hated the arrogant country before him. He and Spain may have a scrappy relationship but it was downright friendly compared to the bitterness and begrudging respect he gave France as a show of hatred. He hated admitting he was right more than anything, but it was still better than a pointless death, a pointless loss. Might as well try to enjoy the evening entertainment. England slowly holstered his gun and France smiled deeply. 

“ _ Magnifique!  _ Now please, come with me! We have much to discuss!” France said cheerfully, waving his hand again and all the rifles disappeared. 

Mateo watched the exchange with wide eyes… so this is what two nations exercising displays of power looked like. It made Spain and England’s rivalry look like child’s play. 

But he couldn’t help but be curious. Lucille… 

A human, unless a nation that was familiar enough with France to allow him to use the human name nations abandoned. They followed France in a group as he led them along the sea wall to the tavern in the bay. Mateo climbed onto the sea wall with ease, walking along the stone outcrop and enjoying the sea breeze, the firm land beneath his feet. He found himself wanting to sing and dance, for it felt as if he was free. Roaming a port of his own volition. 

He noticed Spain looking, a smile on his face. He reached for Mateo’s hand, the nation hoisting his larger neighbor up onto the stone wall. They walked together, Spain letting Mateo lead and just enjoy his freedom, only God knew when they’d feel it again. 

As they drew nearer to the tavern they slowed, falling behind England and France just slightly as they looked out to sea. 

“Do you always have to ruin your face with that scowl? It’ll give you wrinkles,” France teased England as they walked. 

“Shut up, no it won’t. You’re just being annoying,” England responded. He turned back to glance at Spain and Andorra trailing behind them. 

“You don’t need to worry about them… I control this island. Everyone already knows they’re not to leave, you don’t have to be so paranoid about it,” France said with a laugh.

“The fact that they’re your men makes me  _ more _ paranoid. I trust you as far as I can throw your fat French ass,” England complained, though a part of him did relax. It was France he had to be careful of, nations and their shifting motivations. The men would simply follow orders as long as they were loyal. When they reached the tavern and he noticed the two of them watching out over the seawall he decided he could give a little. 

“Stay close. I don’t want to hunt you down later with a gun, got it?” England asked, already heading into the tavern after France. 

They looked between each other, climbing down from the sea wall and heading into the tavern on England’s heels. 

It was dark inside the tavern, poorly lit and obscuring faces in shadows, Spain weaved between people, following England. Mateo looked around, accidentally knocking into someone who snarled and told him to watch where he was going. 

He caught up with Spain, eyes coming to focus on someone sitting in a corner booth of the tavern, near the back but close to a window, close enough to make out her face, her feminine charms. When France sat down in the booth and invited them to join, he realized that this was Lucille. She rested her head on her hand, elbow perched gracefully on the table in the booth, a grin spreading across her smooth, red-painted lips. It was then he noticed the snake, coiled over her shoulders and around her arm. It was only small, but seeing her so well-acquainted with it left him feeling nervous. She was clearly powerful, fearless. She greeted them with a narrow gaze, calculating and her eyes almost glowed in the dim light.

“England, Spain… Ah, and of course we can’t forget our newest friend,  _ Andorra _ ,” France said with emphasis “This is my lovely protege Lucille. She’s been dying to meet another country besides me,” France explained with a smile, he slid into the booth next to her, scooting up close but still giving her space instead of draping himself over her as he might with other women. England found himself wondering about their relationship.

“Ahh, you speak too highly of me, Francis,” she looked at France, “although I’m amazed to meet not one, but three nations… especially my homeland.” Her hand glided across the surface of the table, fingertips deftly working against the wood in a patterned tapping. She stared at Mateo’s arm, or lack thereof. Her eyes were burning with soft embers, although to most it would look like energy, life, zest. 

Lucille sat beside France for all but five seconds before she lifted her legs enough to cross her feet over one another on the table, colorful boots hitting the table with soft thuds, skirt pooling free from her legs to settle like a waterfall, uncouth in nature but exerting her dominance in the situation as she looked between the men at the table with a cold stare, steely and astute. Assessing the situation with a careful mind and engaged eye. She could guess who England was, and she had an idea who was Spain and who was Andorra. But just to be sure…

“So, how long have you been Andorra?” She directed the question between Spain and Andorra, waiting for one to answer. 

Spain turned to him,  **“how long have you been Andorra?”**

**“A few days.”** The taller spoke. Ah. Andorra. She smirked behind her hand. 

**“I see! And have you always been… missing a limb?”** She watched Andorra react. An obvious  _ no. _ He wasn’t very good at hiding his emotions. 

"Enough from the prostitute. What do you want, France?" England said abruptly.

Lucille took one look at England, lowering her legs and fixing her posture. Her gaze remained neutral, even though long black lashes. “Ahh, make no mistake, England, I’m on equal power to yourself when it comes to the men I command. But that’s where our similarities end.”

"Got something under that skirt I should know about?" England smirked, amused by the mortal woman's brass tacks.

Without a moment’s hesitation, her hand slipped under the table, “how astute of you, England.” She lifted her dress enough to retrieve her weapon hidden there. Driving the dagger’s blade into the surface of the table, fingers balancing on the pommel with feminine delicacy, yet unyielding intent. 

England raised his brows, impressed by the weapon and her deft handling of it. 

"Who are you? Surely you know what company you keep… You're surrounded by countries. France, what's the game here? Why did you bring her?"

“No games here, England,” Lucille spoke instead of France, looking to her neighbor at the table before making eye contact with England again. “Francis just wanted to show off his latest… trinket.” 

Spain, who’d been watching the scene unfold, was finding it harder and harder not to crease under the hilarity of England getting his ass handed to him in a war of words, but when Lucille spoke on behalf of France, the air around the table changed. There was something else. Unspoken agendas and secrets yet to be revealed. 

Mateo, on the other hand, wasn’t amused. A fire in the pit of his chest made him restless, and he watched Lucille with great interest, feeling an instant connection created through their homeland. She made eye contact with him, hand moving up to pet the snake around her shoulders, stroking down the strong, muscular body of the animal. Mateo was quick to look away.

“What’s the trinket? You or something you represent?” England asked, eyes roving between the woman and France. He was getting fed up with the subterfuge. When the bar wench arrived with their pints he was glad for the moment’s distraction, everyone grabbing their mugs and drinking deeply. 

Lucille ignored the question, taking a long drink from her mug and almost draining it, “I’ll tell you honestly, England. I don’t… agree--” she picked her words carefully “--with this new Andorra. The previous Andorra and I were very close, his death was a shock to me. I don’t trust this Andorra, I don’t trust his abilities in a fight, nor do I trust him as a person.”

Spain listened carefully, wondering if England, or indeed France or Lucille, had picked up on the slip-up, it was minute, hardly noticeable. But it made him wonder, which of them was telling the truth.

All the while, Lucile eyed Andorra, watching him carefully but he gave nothing away, Didn’t portray his feelings where earlier he’d been an open book. Did he even understand what she’d said? She looked to Spain, but his hard eyes didn’t translate. 

Very well. 

**“I’m going to dance, care to join me, Andorra?”** Lucille declared in Spanish, watching Andorra respond. 

**“It’s been a while since I was able to dance.”** He shrugged noncommittally, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. 

Spain’s eyes narrowed, standing a little too abruptly, “I’ll go too.” 

The three left the table to dance, leaving England and France to nurse their drinks. 

“Trying to draw them away? I’ll have you know-”

“Darling, please. I’m not in control of her. The very opposite in fact! I’d lick the very soles of her boots if it would please my lovely Lucille,” France explained as if it were obvious. 

“Ugh, enough! That’s disgusting! How can you even consort with a mortal like that?” 

“What England, is that an offer I detect?” France gloated and smiled at England smugly. 

“N-no! I wouldn’t stoop so low as to wanting your snail-sucking lips anywhere near me!” England huffed, blushing, waving a hand at the bar wench for another pint. At that very moment, he happened to remember that it was France who’d been the last person to claim his ass. And now Spain… God, why did he have to remember that now? 

As if on cue, the group of musicians began performing, the sound of tinkling like wind chimes filled Mateo’s ears, flutes and soft strings followed closely behind. Lucille firmly gripped her skirt, curtsying for the two men and waiting for reciprocation. Mateo was the one to bow, his good arm poised over her waist. She grinned, eyes lighting up at his willingness and she grabbed his wrist, tugging him close so they were chest to chest, impossibly close quarters that left his face feeling hot. 

Mateo glanced at Spain, who simply shrugged with a laugh. England continued to glare at him though he said nothing, Frances eyes sparkled with amusement.

“Have fun,” Spain told him, “that’s an order.” 

Mateo turned back to Lucille, who wasted no more time getting him into a dance. 

_ Dressed in virginal white, _ _  
_ _ Come now and end your plight, _ _  
_ _ It is useless to resist when you are already hers, _ _  
_ _ So give yourself to her on her bed of furs. _

There was no structure to the dance, only aimless skipping and spinning around one another. Couples were switching partners with reckless abandon, all apart from Mateo and Lucille, the woman keeping a possessive hold over the fellow Andorran. 

_ She’ll numb your mind,  _ _  
_ _ Leave you unwilling to fight, _ __  
_ Another victim to the perfect host, _ _  
_ __ When she’s finished she’ll leave you with nothing but a ghost. 

He spun Lucille under his arm so she was arm’s length away from him before twirling her back into close proximity. Her hands splayed across his broad chest, dragging down his torso to his hips and tugging him even closer, if that was possible, by the waist of his pants, he was pressed flush against her, feeling every dip and curve of her body against his own. Her hands crawled back up his chest in a serpentine manner before she tugged him down by his shirt collar to whisper in his ear. 

**“Wanna sneak out?”** Her voice was low, sultry, the question loaded with the demand.

_ Come and get it.  _

Mateo felt his face grow hotter and he knew he was blushing. He hadn’t had sex since Spain, something he didn’t exactly see as  _ fun _ ; hadn’t found release in much longer. How long had it been since he’d bedded a woman? Especially one so strong-willed. He couldn’t recall the last time, although the latter had been, well, never. He’d never met such a headstrong woman, much less had the pleasure of sharing a bed with one. His previous partners had always been soft, pliant in his grasp, and he wondered if Lucille would fall apart as well. 

But then reality came crashing down and he remembered England’s threat. 

_ If one of you disappears, I’ll hurt the other.  _

**“I, uh, have to ask…”**

**“I didn’t peg you as the type to follow orders from anyone other than your captain, Andorra. Your captain said to have fun… make good on his sacrifice.”**

Then, he was dragged into the crowd of bodies dancing, disappearing from the tavern doors under the mask of others and the poorly lit room. 

Lucille passed France a glance, quickly smirked at him before disappearing from the tavern. England didn’t fail to notice either, stood to follow him with a grumble before France grabbed his arm and halted him, pulling him back down to his seat. 

“Wait, England, he’s not going anywhere. I can promise you that,” France said smugly, already sipping from his red wine. England sat back down and nursed his cup, eyes following Spain as he continued to spin and leap among the crowd. 

Spain was dancing with the patrons, being passed from person to person with no real direction, he was oblivious to what was happening, that Mateo had left the building. He finally spun back to the table, a particularly rotund woman flinging him in that general direction. He fell into his seat and took a swig of his drink before letting out a breathless sigh of content. 

“Having fun, Spain?” England asked with a poisonous smirk when he returned. He was anything but happy. 

Spain looked at him, panting, before looking around the room and not spotting Mateo’s tall stature and tanned skin anywhere. Nor Lucille’s. He furrowed his brow. 

“I’d have more fun if you danced with me,” he said, gripping England’s wrists and tugging him to where everyone else was still dancing. 

England was completely taken aback and despite his protests and digging his heels in, he still found himself being yanked from their booth, France laughing at him as he was hauled off into the spinning crowd. 

“What’s the meaning of this! I didn’t say I wanted to dance, especially not with a half-wit like you!” England complained, though when Spain spun him around he had to catch himself against his chest, leaning in as they swayed. 

“Shut up and dance,” Spain hissed, spinning them together, he leaned in close, resting his head on England’s shoulder and turning so France couldn’t see his lips moving. “Do you know where Mateo and Lucille went?”

England felt his arms wrapping around Spain nonetheless, despite the blush and the anger at being forced into this position. He held him closer and whispered back against his ear. 

“I was just about to ask you the same thing, actually. What should I do to you in punishment for him for running off? Hmm?” England asked twirling with the running scale of the jig, pressing his hips in harder as he did it. 

Spain gasped, legs going weak before he scowled. “So you missed it?” 

“Missed what?” England moved so his thigh slid between Spain’s legs, pressing up and leaning in - feeling him get hard under his pants in the dim dingy light of the tavern. 

Spain tried to glare, but his eyes only held a slight haze of lust. “France said Lucille had never met another nation; was eager to meet us. But Lucille said she’d known the previous Andorra well before his death. And now our Andorra is missing.” 

England pulled back and stopped trying to get Spain to respond, instead green eyes going sharp as he glanced back at the booth where France sat serenely sipping his drink. 

"You don't think… France planned this?!" Suddenly thinking of a way to torment Spain seemed like a waste of time. Not when France was scheming.

Spain looked down, eyes calculating before his vision lifted, meeting England’s gaze. “I have a plan, but you’re not going to like it.” 

England frowned and then twisted them another circle around the dance floor, further away from France. 

"What is it then?"

“We need to get onto France’s ship,” Spain stated, “but I think we’re going to have to be… tactful. As to not arouse suspicion.” He edged around what he was trying to say, gauging England’s reaction before finally saying it. “Our best bet to get to his private quarters is to seduce him. I think between us we can do that easily. Butter him up a little then while he’s occupied with one of us the other can go and look for Mateo.” 

Several things happened at once in England's brain. Knowing Spain was right, it was certainly the easiest way onboard, knowing that France would undoubtedly be delighted to take advantage of a tryst with a fellow nation, especially two of them. But it jangled harshly against his pride and sense of dignity. France was voracious when it came to sex and England's back felt sore just thinking of the outcome. England shook his head, trying to forget how France last used him and calculated if it was worth it. 

"If we're doing this, you gotta do the hard part. Understand? Goddamn… You're both more trouble than you're worth, you know that? I need another drink," England moaned, already regretting this plan.

“Just so we’re clear, you’re looking for Mateo?” Spain questioned, “I’m… doing  _ that?” _ He motioned discreetly to France. 

“Yes, you’re going to take  _ that  _ up the ass, since you're so good at it and all,” England nodded, letting go of Spain and heading back over to the table.

Spain grimaced before following him. “France~” 

\----

Lucille led Mateo from the tavern, a sway to her hips as she lured him toward France’s boat. He followed at her heels, taking in her figure. She was well built, muscular but it was lean muscle. She didn’t look like she’d break under his fingertips like other women he’d slept with. The bustling crowds and livestock briefly disrupted his admiring, having to focus on not bumping into people or animals as he walked. 

She turned to look over her shoulder, flipping her tightly curled, fiery hair over her shoulder and looking at him with narrow eyes. In the afternoon daylight, she was even more beautiful than the dim light of the tavern. The sun set her hair on fire, a halo of orange around her head. Loose curls framed her face, capturing high cheekbones and accentuating them, and her skin looked as soft as silk-- no, satin. He exhaled, breath caught in his throat as she eyed him appreciatively. 

She took his hand as they walked along the narrow gangway, pulling him behind her to the boardwalk up to the ship.

He felt dwarfed by the size of the French galleon, stopping to take in his surroundings. 

**“Are you coming?”** She looked back, teasing her hair from its up-do into something more relaxed. Waves plunged around her features, only serving to show off the column of her neck, and he found himself following them with his eyes. 

All he could do was nod. 

She smiled widely, golden eyes alight with mischievous warmth. She took his hand again, leading him below deck to her private quarters, a bathroom of her own, a bedroom, and attendants’ room. The galleon was huge, big enough for her to have all the amenities France had above deck. 

She closed the door behind them, motioning for Mateo to take a seat at a small ornate table in the corner of her room, two chairs poised on either side of the table. She closed the door, sliding a deadbolt across the frame, locking it from the inside.

**“That’ll stop any… interruptions.”** She smiled, but it was all sensuality.  **“Would you like an Andorran drink?”**

**“Please.”** He remembered the drink his father had given him, remembering the bittersweet taste of celebrating his favorite ewe’s life as opposed to mourning her untimely death. 

She turned to a cabinet, reaching for two tumbler glasses and an expensive-looking bottle of spirits. Grinning, she returned to the table, stalking Mateo like a predator would close in on her prey. Lucille poured a shot into the glass and Mateo went to take it, it was a rich brown color, like a well-aged whiskey. 

**“Ah, not yet.”** She took the glass from him, reaching into a pouch at her waist and crumbling a dried leaf into the drink. 

**“What’s that?”**

**“Andorran spice, it gives the drink an… irresistible quality.”**

Mateo nodded, bringing the drink to his lips. It burned as he swallowed, a pleasant warmth spreading outwards from his stomach. 

She took a sip from her drink, and Mateo hadn’t seen her add the spice to her drink. But then, he hadn’t been paying attention. 

Lucille watched Mateo polish off his drink, taking another swig before smirking.  **“Shall we take this to the bed?”**

Mateo stood and her hand rested on his chest, over his sternum. She guided him backward, her body swaying much like Mateo’s vision. His legs collided with the side of the bed, weakening his knees and sending him toppling backward onto fine silks and luxurious furs. He looked up, watching her light the oil burner beside the bed, releasing a sweet incense into the room. He lay mesmerized as he watched her untie her skirt from her waist, the heavy fabric falling away to reveal lithe legs barely concealed by a pair of shorts. There were scars on her legs, Mateo noticed, silver-pink stretched patches of skin amongst her olive tone. Burn scars. She mounted the bed beside him, swinging her leg over his body and smirking down at him as she straddled his hips, trapping him between her thighs. He reached to stroke her skin, over the scars on her left leg. 

**“Don’t touch.”** Her tone was dark, forceful.  **“You’re already missing an arm, don’t make me break the other.”**

Mateo felt as if he’d been slapped, jolted from a dream as she spoke so harshly. He tried to lift himself to lean on his elbow, but he found his muscles unable to support his weight. 

Her eyes were dark now, laced with intent as she reached for his arm, securing her silk belt tied around her waist to his wrist and the post of the bed. 

**“Stop thinking. Listen to your desires, mon trésor.”** She kissed his lips, sweet like poison. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup. Another one. *puts on shades* Deal with it.


	5. Count on Me Like the Waves of the Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England’s plan gets the better of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update y’all! Enjoy~

When France heard the proposition, or rather, picked up on what Spain was putting down with those bedroom eyes and a tanned hand on his thigh under the table, he instantly responded. 

“Ah, Spain, is England not providing you with all your needs? I can see you’re feeling bereft. He always can be a brute in bed, right? I can take care of you… more sensually, mi amor-”

“I’m not a brute!” Both Spain and France paused to look at England sitting there with his arms crossed, eyebrows crossed, legs crossed, a sulky pout on his lips. 

Spain’s fingers on France’s thigh tensed at England’s defensive tone, he stared at him with a flat expression. “You fucked me with a sword, then made me fuck my first mate, then stabbed me with the sword… if that’s not brutish I don’t know what is.” 

France leaned back to laugh heartily at England’s expense. 

“Oh dear, a sword you say? How did you even survive that? England, darling, they have implements made specifically for that. Don’t degrade a sword like that just because you can’t get it up,” 

“Get it - no, that wasn’t what was… I can get it up just fine! That was just to show him who’s boss!” England spluttered, already regretting getting involved with both of them at once. One on one was bad enough and he had a feeling he was going to be defensive the entire time if it kept up like this.

“And hence, why we call you a brute,” France chuckled darkly, draining the last of his wine. His blue eyes wandered over both England and Spain as he drank, already undressing them with his gaze. 

Spain’s fingers began moving again, stroking up France’s thigh and back down again. He could feel France’s lingering glances, it made him feel hot and he leaned in closer to France and whispering in his ear. 

“Why don’t you show him how it’s done~”

“I was thinking the same thing,  _ Espagne _ ,” France murmured, hand snaking around his lower back, squeezing him in tighter before releasing him. “Come along then, I have a lovely view of the bay from my quarters and anything we could possibly want. You coming, England? Or you just going to let me whisk your prisoner away?” France said through a smile, grabbing Spain’s hand and deeply kissing the back of it as if he were a blushing bride. He watched England’s reaction over the back of Spain’s hand and winked at the island when he saw him scowling at the display of affection. 

“Of course I’m coming. But just to make sure you don’t run off with him. I’m gonna ransom his ass for all the gold in the Spanish royal treasury before this is all done,” 

“Ah, don’t bring politics into it! You’ll kill the mood!” France pleaded, holding Spain by the waist and already ushering him through the door of the tavern, back out into the afternoon sunlight headed toward the docks.

Spain looked back over his shoulder at England, allowing France to handle him in any way he wanted, he leaned heavily into France’s side, but gave England a quick thumbs-up, trying with all his might to remain focused on the task at hand and not getting lost in the sheer joy of watching England bluster his way through excuses. He was enjoying watching the island nation struggle to keep up with his neighboring country’s antics. 

France led them to his ship, a massive hulking impressive carrier, and it dwarfed the size of England’s ship. France smirked knowingly back at the other two but didn’t say anything. It was too obvious. He strode aboard and gave a few soft-spoken orders to his skeleton crew watching over the ship. They nodded and dispersed and France motioned them over. 

“Just ensuring we won’t be disturbed… After you, gentlemen,” France paused in front of the door to his quarters and allowed them to notice the fine detail work before pulling it open. It was thick and heavy, hand-carved with wrought iron hinges, cross-grain in the rails and stiles, and floral and nautical sculpting in relief within each square panel. It was a fancy, sturdy thing, inlaid with gingerbread trim and impossible to batter down, despite the small speakeasy door near the top. It too had a small set of iron bars over it, and the entire threshold spoke of opulence and artistic vision. 

It made England’s small simple design - his ship, his door, himself even, - appear rather drab by comparison. 

Spain looked around, marveling at the intricate designs on the door and the sheer size of the ship. His mouth hung open as he looked up at the mast, the size of the sails, everything was  _ huge. _ He looked over at England, and then to France. 

“You went all out with this, huh?” 

“Oh, but of course! If you’re going to sail the sea might as well do it in style, am I right?” France boasted, chest puffing out as he was incredibly proud of his royal Galleon, an absolute behemoth of a boat. 

England scoffed, kicked at the wood trim with his boot. 

“Yeah, it’s fine if you like showing off and wasting your money on this fancy shit. First engagement though and it’s all for nothing when your nice carvings get splintered.”

France rolled his eyes.

“Ah yes, doing everything by force. Some of us actually can maintain trade routes without resorting to common piracy, England,” France explained condescendingly as if he were a spoiled brat. He pulled the door open and ushered them inside. 

England frowned and shot out another insult as he passed. 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s just you overcompensating, I’m sure. Can’t hold your own in a fight so you deck yourself out like a peacock instead,” 

Spain sighed, he was tired of England’s constant fighting and belittling, as the only person in the room with  _ no _ treasure at all, he felt incredibly out of place and defensive in the grand ship. 

“Will you be quiet for five goddamn minutes?” He hissed with a scowl. He hated to admit it, but at the sight of the bed, all he wanted to do was sleep. He hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep in so long. But he knew that wasn’t why he was here. But he could dream. 

France smirked and strutted around the room, just as gaudy and finely furnished as his door. 

“Yes, please, England, you’re ruining the mood,” France grabbed more wine from a decanter on a shelf and quickly poured himself and two more cups, passing them to each nation. Then he went back to the door, opened the tiny hatch at the top, and yelled in French at some men on the deck. A few moments later and a quartet was playing on the deck, a steady stream of languid music seeping through the walls and giving them some background to listen to. France turned back and held his drink aloft.

“A toast!” France explained with a smile. 

“What exactly are we toasting? It’s the middle of the day,” England griped, annoyed that the others were pretty much ignoring him now. 

“Why, we’re toasting to pleasure, to seeking desires, to a wholly satisfying ending, doesn’t that sound lovely? My cranky  _ Angleterre _ ? Is he this bad with you as well?” France asked, turning to Spain and going back to ignoring England. 

Spain looked between them and then looked at his drink, taking a small sip. He was wary after what had happened to him in the hold, didn’t like the idea of alcohol and the bed being so close to each other. He placed his drink on the shelf where the decanter was, looking back between them to see if the standoff had lessened at all. 

“We’re here to enjoy ourselves, not to bicker. Come, take that hat off, relax with us-” France cooed, trying to draw England out of his prickly shell. 

“Oh come off it, I’m here to make sure you don’t run off with my prisoner. He’s a good lay so have at him, but as for me, I’m just going to stand here and watch you fuck the whore and drink your shitty French wine, got it?” England spat out angrily. He was getting more and more irritated the longer he was around France and his syrupy seductive taunting. 

“Funny,” Spain fake laughed, looking at France, “tell me, ever had England on your cock also begging for your fingers inside him? Because I have. He was… insatiable.” 

France’s eyebrows went up at that, his eyes crinkling with mirth, glancing over to England who was blushing and scowling scandalized over by the wall. 

“Oh really, England? Letting your prisoner have his way with you and you loved it, of course. He’s a massive slut beneath that tiny frowning exterior,” France laughed, standing up to stalk closer to England. 

England didn’t know whether to be more insulted by Spain sharing their private moment or France calling him small. He was frozen in irate embarrassment and couldn’t find the words to retort when France was swaying closer, draining his wine in one long gulp as he walked, flicking open the top button on his shirt to reveal the curly blond chest hair peeking over the open collar. His eyes never left England and he felt trapped in his lustful gaze.

“It’s- it’s not like that, I was doing it because- I was in control, I was the one who -” England stuttered, moved back against the wall, averted his eyes from France’s shirt. “We’re here to fuck Spain, not me!” England said abruptly, making the plan completely clear to everyone. 

“Oh, but how can you say that when you clearly need it so badly?” France murmured, leaning in and trapping England against the wall, hand sliding up his pants to cup his dick between their thighs. “Spain, what do you think?” France glanced over his shoulder to ask, a mischievous grin on his lips as he felt England melt and then stiffen into his touch. 

Spain scowled at England for revealing the plan, pissed that he’d given it away to France. “I think… he needs a good fucking. Maybe even more than one good fuck,” Spain leered, moving closer to England. “Have you got a sword?” He asked, more to torment his captor than anything else. “I know exactly where I’m going to stick it if you do,” he frowned at England. 

“Fuck this, fuck you, and fuck you too!” England pushed off the wall and stormed his way past France. He felt the blood hot in his cheeks, flushed and angry and embarrassed and still turned on by all the focused attention. He needed some space to think, he needed to get out of their crossfire and regroup before it went any further. 

France was taken aback by England shoving him away, heading straight for the door, and he shared a knowing look with Spain before sweeping after England and snagging his wrist, pulling him back against his broad chest and wrapping both arms around him to hold him close. 

“Where do you think you’re going? Didn’t you say you were going to stay and watch?” France murmured into his ear, hand looping around the front and working the buttons off on England’s shirt, the captain’s jacket already spilled open and his cravat gone crooked. 

“Stop it, get off me, I never agreed to this-” England felt his knees go weak and he hated himself for leaning back into France, but he’d just grabbed a hold of his dick, palming it through his trousers and he couldn’t help responding to the deft touch. He tried again to say something biting, to struggle away again, but felt the words catch in his throat, felt the fight leave him as his dick grew down his thigh. 

“Your body seems to agree though, come on Spain, show me how you like to work him,” France laughed, still holding him up and slowly, carefully undressing him, one knot and button at a time, kissing his neck and revealed shoulders as he did it, each whiskery peck sending a shiver through England.

Spain felt his face grow hot, watching the display, his trousers beginning to feel tight, and upon France’s request, he moved closer until he was face to face with England. He smirked, loosening the belt of his pants and slipping them down his legs, his hands splayed on England’s chest and he hummed as he sank to his knees, hands tracing down England’s front to his hips and lower still to his thighs, nails lightly scratching his skin.

He kissed the tip of England’s cock, tongue passing his lips to wet the head with kitten licks. One hand came up to pump his dick as he worked his mouth over him, tongue laving over the sensitive underside of his shaft from base to tip and he closed his eyes as he settled into a gentle, teasing rhythm of licks and kisses. 

England groaned and let go of France’s roving hands to grab at Spain’s head. France tutted and grabbed one wrist, and then the other, dragging them back behind England and holding them together at the small of his back. 

“Who said you could touch? I want to see how Spain handles you,” France nuzzled the side of England's neck, biting him through the cravat and earning a jolt and a cry from him. France’s hips pushed lazily against England’s ass, dragging his erection over the crack each time. As he continued to nip and lick, he used his free hand to undo the knot at England’s throat, unpin the ruby jewel and slip it discreetly into his pocket. His neck was finally exposed, a pale white column that France began to swipe long heavy licks up his nape, his jugular, grabbing and worrying his earlobe between his teeth, blowing air into his ear so England could hear how much he affected him. 

Between France’s dominant touch and Spain’s skilled sucking, England found himself quickly losing control. He couldn’t break France’s grasp on his hands, couldn’t stop the trembles that raced through his thighs as he listened to the wet sucking sounds of Spain’s lips. He couldn’t stop the arch in his body as France began to bite and lick him, stripping him as he did it. He wanted to relax into it, let them do what they wanted - it felt so good; but knowing it was his two rivals making him feel this way, knowing how they would lord it over him, England knew he couldn’t just surrender so easily. 

“Ah, fucking, assholes… Do you really think this will work? That I’m going to submit to you- ah, fuck, and your shitty teasing? No, no, fuck you! Fuck you both-” England was cut off suddenly by France’s hand clapped over his mouth, yanking his head back until he leaned against France’s shoulder, arms still held behind him, his front forced to bend outward, arching into Spain’s touch. 

“England, really? You’re still trying to deny it when you’re like this? Please, just be quiet for once, won’t you?” France said silkily into his ear. 

Spain lifted off from his cock, looking up at France, “I think he’d enjoy sucking your fingers,” he said, “keep that mouth busy.” 

He took England down again, wet warmth consuming his cock as Spain bobbed his head more, taking him deeper until he hit the back of his throat, swallowing around him to suppress his gag reflex and lifting off again, setting a slow, torturous pace for England, never quite giving him the pleasure he needed to edge closer to an orgasm. 

Smirking like a cat with cream, France moved his hand to rub his fingertips slowly across England’s lips, pressing into the soft give of them before murmuring. 

“What do you think, England? Are you gonna bite me or will you finally be nice?”

England felt himself teetering, felt himself opening his mouth, tongue extending to lap at France’s fingers, but stopped himself at the last second with an angry snarl and tried to snap at him instead. France immediately retaliated, hand swiftly moving down to clench roughly at his throat instead, other hand jerking up to put pressure on his arms, his joint-locked shoulders. England yelped and panted and whined in pain, hips still jerking helplessly against Spain, his hard-on never flagging at the harsh treatment. If anything it twitched and swelled as England was choked. 

“Ah, see? What were we saying earlier? A brute. That’s all you are. A slutty brute who just can’t help but like it rough, right Spain?” France growled, his voice low and husky.

Spain inwardly laughed at the exchange, settling into a faster shallow pace. His hands palmed at England’s asscheeks and forced his hips to move in time with his mouth, between himself and France, there was very little left for England to control and he let his jaw go slack, swallowing England down until his nose was pressed against his pelvis, breathing in his heady scent and moaning softly, sending vibrations down his cock. 

France let go of England’s throat to trail his hand down and let his fingers card through England’s crack, spreading his cheeks nestle his dick in close and ride the groove, reaching around to tweak at England’s nipples, one and then the other, twisting them hard enough that England was mewling like a kitten, involuntary sounds of gasping pain and pleasure entwined into an inseparable sensation. He felt overstimulated, like he couldn’t cum, but couldn’t stop either, hips spasming down Spain’s humming throat, arms wrenched painfully up his own back, dick sliding wetly over his ass while little sparks of pleasure were being shocked from his chest as France kept alternating.

England felt his knees give out entirely, completely unable to stand as pure instincts took hold. He couldn’t fight back, he wanted it, he wanted it so badly, standing erect and proud was a farce. He hit the floor, falling into Spain, pushing him down as well, his hips raised and spread alluringly for France. 

“Please,” England said, not looking back, just pressing his face into Spain’s neck, hiding his face, sprawled over his body. 

Spain looked over at France, slightly bewildered by how England had given in to the pleasure. He found his hands working into England’s hair, forcing him to look up at him. 

“‘Please what?” He smirked knowingly, voice rough from taking England’s dick. He reached between them, palming England’s cock and rubbing his thumb over the slit, no real purpose to his actions or pressure behind them. Purely teasing. 

England whined, shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut, and yanked his head forcibly from Spain’s grasp. He’d rather lose hair than make eye contact right now. He didn’t respond, there was nothing he could say, just thrust into Spain’s grip, dragging himself over Spain’s dick in the process. 

France groaned at the sight, England rutting against Spain, legs spread, ass wide open. He sank to his knees and plunged his tongue inside without warning, thrusting it in and moaning, quickly thrusting in one, two fingers, tonguing some more until England was wailing again, then three fingers. France pulled back and swiped at some grease nearby, the same tin box brand that England had, and smeared his dick before grabbing England’s hips like a dog in heat and mounting him, sliding in with a single throaty rush.

England screamed, scrabbled forward, his dick rock hard and weeping in Spain's hands, unable to move because of how he was held back by them both. Slowly his body accepted it and he began canting his hips back at France, into Spain, his screams modulated to groans, to moans, minor-major shift, and then another high note as Spain moved his hand. 

Spain watched from his position on the floor, moaning and gasping as he felt England writhing and rutting against him, the force of France’s thrusts moving England against him in tandem. 

Fuuuck. 

He almost forgot to keep his hand moving, his timing completely sporadic and unpredictable. His free hand wound back into England’s hair, but instead of forcing him to look up he lightly tugged on the sandy-colored strands, twisting it around his fingers and lightly scratching his scalp in an almost affectionate, soothing way. But it didn’t last long, he wanted to see England’s reaction, wanted to watch him either struggle against it, or willingly accept his fate. 

“I wonder if you could take both of us at once, hm, England?” He asked, whispering in his ear. “You really seem to want more than what you have already,” he fisted his cock. “Would you like that? Two cocks, two different paces, taking you apart from the inside out, cumming in you, and painting your insides white, all before you found your release yourself. Then you’d leak pathetically from your ass all over the floor, your cock only following when we allowed it to.” His eyes narrowed in menace. “Which reminds me of our time together, denying your orgasm like that. What fun, watching you fall apart. I wonder how many times we could deny you this time.” 

England whimpered, couldn’t form words, and just let his mouth fall open panting in time with France’s thrusts as he picked up a faster pace at Spain’s words. His eyes were a deep lacquered green, glazed and glossed and dark with pleasure. 

France groaned loudly as well. 

“Ah, Spain, have you ever done such a thing? It’s rather intense you know… We’ll have to spend some time working him up to that,” France said conversationally, still ramming into England as he spoke. 

“Never done it before, but I think he wants it~” Spain cooed with a grin, scratching England’s scalp in lazy circles. His hand left his cock, smearing precum along England’s side as he stroked up his torso, teasing a hardened nipple between his forefinger and thumb.

“No,” England moaned, but he didn’t move, said it so softly and the word itself was so fragile he might have said nothing at all. He ducked his head, shuddering and curling against Spain’s hand, hips sliding back to meet France’s motion. He mouthed at Spain’s chest under him, licking and nipping, never hard but something to focus on as France drove a wet burning trail inside him. 

Spain moaned softly, rolling his nipple between his fingers, lightly tugging. 

“Fuck,” he cursed, cock aching, leaking precum onto his stomach. “What was that, England? You want both of us inside you?” 

“N-no, no I can’t, I can’t do it,” England nearly sobbed, already feeling overwhelmed taking France so quickly, feeling Spain running his hand over him. He couldn’t fight them both, hoped to appease them instead with something else. “Please, let me do this…” England tried to scoot down lower, was stopped by France still kneeling behind him, reached with his hand instead to rub and grip Spain’s erection.

“Ah, you want to suck Spain? What do you think?” France asked with a cruel laugh.

Spain groaned at England’s grip tightened around his cock, “wanna feel that pretty mouth around my cock…” Spain almost whimpered, looking up at France with a knowing twist of his lips, hidden from England’s view. 

France grinned back at Spain and grabbed England by the hips, shuffling back a few feet so England could easily access Spain’s crotch. He mouthed at Spain’s clothed dick, tasting the salty wet spot on the tip, finally slipping it from his pants after a moment and immediately sucking his mouth down over the glans. He stiffened the point of his tongue and ran it in tiny circles around the tip, flickering and pushing against the slit, sliding his tongue beneath the silky fold of skin around the crown, sucking hard once he’d cleaned out Spain’s tip completely. 

Spain cried out at the sensation of his neglected cock finally getting attention, both hands working into England’s hair, letting him set the pace but tugging lightly in approval of his ministrations. 

While England continued to suck at Spain and make him shout in pleasure, France discreetly smeared more grease on his fingers and slid one in next to his cock, crooking the digit down and pressing directly against his prostate while his cock continued to plunge deeper. England wailed but gagged himself by sinking onto Spain’s dick, deep throating him unprompted. France groaned and had to hold himself still when he saw that. It was too soon to spill, he had to wait for Spain to get in there as well. As England’s head bobbed steadily up and down, he pressed another finger in, pulling against the muscle as if it were a band, taut and straining against his cock. England wailed over Spain’s dick but didn’t stop, moved faster as France plunged his depths. 

Spain tugged hard on England’s hair and moaned long and low in his throat, starting to roll his hips against England’s mouth, muttering curses with an arched back. 

“Fuck… yes…” he mumbled, thrusting upwards and positively melting at England’s skillful tongue. France had stopped moving his hips completely, instead just sliding his finger in and out, squeezing a third one in so half his hand was engaged with England’s ass. He knew if he kept thrusting he would cum too soon. He focused on massaged England and rolling his fingers in gentle undulations, working him open as he would stretch any other muscle. Slowly, persistently, intently. When he was able to slide his pinky in, bringing all four fingers together into a spear shape, move that in and out without friction, without screams, he knew England was ready. Whether he believed it or not. 

France looked over his bowed back and caught Spain’s eyes, smiled warmly at him, and mouthed ‘He’s ready,’ at him. He grabbed England by the hair and pulled him back off of Spain’s dick and was delighted by the sad little bereft sound he made leaving his blowjob unfinished. 

“Oh, don’t worry, England, he’ll come back to you. But right now, you need to focus.” France sat on the bed and scooted back against the headboard and leaned there propping himself up and cradling England in his lap. He pulled his hand out to better grip his legs, pull them up and apart so England was wide open, France’s cock still staked inside him. England panted and looked around as if confused, finally catching Spain’s eyes as he regained his balance. He held France’s neck with one arm, trying to hold himself up, but flung his other arm out as if to grab at Spain but he was out of range. His green eyes were wide, wild, contrasting brilliantly against the red of his cheeks. 

Spain watched England with an intense, hungry stare. As England reached out for him he felt hot, far too hot. He kneeled, moving closer to England and pressing his body flush against him, He smirked at France, now only a few centimeters away from the other nation. He stroked down the column of England’s throat, pushed the head of his dick against the tight heaving line between him and France. 

“Are you ready, England?” Spain asked, hand settling over England’s chest to feel his racing heartbeat under his skin, touch growing more teasing and he stroked over England’s nipple again, tugging and twisting the flesh in much the same way England had to him. 

England felt the position, vaguely heard them bandying the idea around, but now knowing it was about to happen, something broke inside England, and the last shred of pride he had was stripped away beneath the pure fear. 

“Please, please, no, don’t- I’ll break, I- I can’t do it, Please, Spain, France, I-”

“You can do it, mi amor, don’t be silly! Humans do this all the time!” France gripped both legs together with one arm and reached his other arm around, slicking Spain’s dick with grease and then slipped two, three fingers back inside and then pulling, wrenching England open by force. As England screamed and scratched at France’s arm, he grinned over his struggling form at Spain and nodded, shifting his fingers to make room. 

Spain held his cock, lining up with England’s stretched hole and ever so slowly pressed inside, moaning at the new tightness he’d never experienced before. In a moment of mercy, he stopped once the head was inside and allowed England to adjust to the new sensation.

France grabbed his shoulder, caught his eye, and said gruffly, 

“Yes, be still for a moment, he needs time before we start again,” France panted but held himself still, just cradling England in his arms, holding his legs up so they weren’t strained, brushing his free hand soothingly up and down England’s arm. England himself was shuddering, crying, unable to stop the hiccups that came out of nowhere and he fell forward against Spain’s chest and flung his arms around him, catching his nails into his back and just clinging as if drowning. 

“It hurts, it hurts, fuck fuck fuck, please, don’t, I don’t like it, I’m gonna be sick…”

“You’re okay, you’re not going to be sick. Just take deep breaths, listen to my voice, come on, you’re alright England,” France said soothingly, his deep voice vibrating, his hand gently rubbing, holding absolutely still until England stopped crying. 

Spain remained still, watching between France and England for any cues to start moving or pull out. He hated that hearing England’s broken pleading made him almost want to do just that. After all the pain England had put him through, he hated that England still exercised power over him regardless of the situation. He nosed at his neck, leaving fluttering kisses on his skin in an attempt to soothe him and distract himself. 

A full minute passed, both France and Spain soothing and kissing and encouraging England as he crumbled and cried and complained. Eventually, he went quiet, biting his bottom lip, unable to make eye contact, his tears finally stopped though the odd hiccup still shuddered through his diaphragm from time to time. France looked at Spain and nodded again, leaning back so England was more or less presented to him, ready for more. 

“Spain’s going to fuck you now, England…” France murmured, and England whined but said nothing, turning his head to the side to look away. 

Spain slowly began rolling his hips, fucking him slow and shallow, hips shaking at the sensation of England around his cock, again. Only this time it was so much  _ more.  _ He bit England’s shoulder as he tried to control the sounds threatening to break past his lips. 

“Fuck, feel so good, England.” He praised, 

England whimpered, a broken tiny sound caught in his throat, hands going around Spain’s shoulders as the two countries pressed in close. It was just as Spain had said. He could feel them both separately, each had their own heat, their own pulse, and now that they were moving it was so intense England couldn’t speak except for insensible noises, each one sliding in to his own tempo. England’s mouth hung open, his toes curling, eyes rolling back as he held his breath. He couldn’t, he couldn’t survive this… 

“Doing so well… fuck... “ Spain cursed, resting his forehead on England’s shoulder as he continued with the slow pace, and every breath came out as a shuddering sigh. He felt like he was slipping, losing control. His fingers teased the tip of England’s cock, desperate to claw back some of the control he felt he’d lost. 

England gasped with a high alluring cry when he felt Spain touch him, something to focus on besides the intense overwhelming sensation of two dicks at once, even the  _ idea _ of two dicks at once was too much. Forget the tight burning immensely full sensation, just focus on the hand stroking him, the rough pad of his thumb sliding over his wet slit, palming up and down his hard shaft. England looked up again, mouth still hanging open, eyes wet with tears, dark with lust- 

“Pleeease, Spain...I- I need you- I need it, please…” England sputtered off nonsensically, his hips finally starting to move with their tandem rhythm. 

Spain bit his lip, looking over England’s shoulder to look at France, he continued to move his hand, move his hips, it was all so overwhelming and he moaned at England’s begging.

“Ahh, soon, Cariño~” he cooed softly, fisting his cock in time with gentle thrusts. 

France grinned and bit England’s shoulder noting the way he responded by lolling his head the other way, exposing more of his neck. 

“Ah, Spain, he likes what you’re doing. Keep it up and I think we can fuck him properly, oui?” France said it as a question but had already moved up to his knees so he could more efficiently drive into England’s stuffed hole. 

The feeling of their cocks moving together in such a tight space left Spain shuddering. 

“Fuck,  _ yes,  _ fuck him.” 

Still holding onto England’s form with an arm around his waist, he pumped him, fist creating just the right amount of pressure around England’s dick, moving his hips minutely, deep enough for the head to graze ever so lightly against his prostate with each slow cant of his hips. Spain seized his lips with his own, the action all teeth and tongue as he aggressively kissed him and swallowed his moans. 

With France fucking him hard, Spain fucking him slow, fisting his weeping dick, and then out of nowhere kissing him for the first time since… well, ever really, England couldn't help himself as he felt his body tighten like a spring, gripping them both to the point of pleasurable pain, his dick felt enflamed, quivering, ready to spurt forth and he moaned helplessly into Spain’s mouth. 

Spain waited until the last second, could feel every muscle pulled tight like a bowstring, then he smirked, “you think it’d be this easy?” He whispered darkly to his lips. Abruptly stopping, his hand squeezed the base of England’s cock, his other hand going between his legs to grip his balls, denying him his release. 

England howled and bucked and unintentionally rode them both in his fit of orgasm denial. He felt himself shuddering uncontrollably, a high-pitched whimper on each out-breath, and suddenly he could feel his sinuses clogging, could feel his throat swelling, more than the pain and fear-induced tears of before that were quickly swept away by lust and a gentle touch. England couldn’t stop these sobs as they wracked through him - ugly, loud unfettered things and he curled against Spain and hid his face and tried hard to stop, but he simply couldn’t. Even amid his ugly crying England knew he also couldn’t stop moving, lifted and dropped his hips even as sobs continued to shake his frame, his forearm slick with snot, his other hand clapped over his eyes clammy with tears. He rode the two dicks lodged inside him like his life depended on it. 

Spain felt the shuddering sobs against his body, almost feeling sorry for England. Almost. He started a new pace with his hips, slightly faster, slightly rougher. Taking up alternate thrusts to France’s. He began moving his hand again, smirking when he felt England jolt in his arms. 

“You feel so good~” He rasped, “are you gonna cum? Or are we going to stop you again?” He looked to France, wondering what he thought about letting England come undone. He wanted to wait, to keep thrusting until he spilled inside him, and honestly, he could feel it cresting nearer. His orgasm so close, just within his grasp, he slowed his pace, sweat beading on his brows and rivulets sliding down his back, his face was flushed with exertion, for the first time since he’d been on England’s ship he had a healthy color to his skin, even his chest turning a ruddy red as he kept moving his hips, trying to slow the inevitable. He couldn’t cum yet, not yet, not.. yet... He panted, eyes hazed with lust and need and borderline desperation, stilling his hips to regain his composure despite wanting nothing more than to cum. He exhaled shakily, looking at England spread out between them, seeing him faring no better. 

England was still crying, but also still sliding his hips back and forth, wiping furiously at his face as he sat up, swayed for a moment, and then settled back against France, letting himself be held. He pulled his legs up and made a soft beckoning noise toward Spain, as if to say I'm yours, come finish this. He was stretched open so incredibly wide, but it didn't hurt as much anymore, just intense and all-consuming and the most vulnerable thing he could be made to do. 

"Please, please, help me, I need it, I need you, please, Spain, France, please finish it…" England muttered and squeaked, his eyes hooded, his cheeks red with blush and splotchy broken capillaries, mouth shining from spit-slicked kisses, body folded and arched and completely open around them both. 

Spain groaned, starting to move his hips again in frenzied thrusts, losing all rhythm as his end crept up on him, muscles tensing and a tight, desperate knot forming in his stomach. He cursed, biting his lip as his head thumped against England’s shoulder. He pushed in deep, finally tipping over the edge of his orgasm. His body went rigid, shuddering and trembling as he came inside England, breathing heavily with a long drawn out moan as he shook. 

England let out a shuddering breath as he felt the gush of cum inside him, coating him and France who was still sliding in and out of his hole. He kept going even as Spain went soft, thrusting up against him until he slipped out. France laid back on the bed, entirely flat as he grabbed England by his folded knees and hooked his hands around, pulling him back and skidding him across the bed until his knees were straddled over France's face, bent over his body cock standing proud and wet before his face. England groaned from the changed position, a small whimper leaking out when both cocks left him. He felt France's hot mouth encompass his dick hanging between his legs, his mustache and goatee sending rough little sparks through the suction, and the moan was cut off as his mouth went wide. France sucked for only a few seconds before he stopped. 

"Spain, I think England got stuck. Could you help him figure out what he needs to do next?" France taunted, hips jumping up to run his wet dick across England's cheek. 

"No, I don't want to do that, that's gross, ah, fuuuuck…" England couldn't keep a frown on his face, not with France sucking the life from his dick. 

Spain felt utterly boneless, taking a moment to register what France had said as he tucked himself back into his pants. He exhaled, eyes going wide before he looked at them and feeling the heat rising to his cheeks. 

He drew nearer, carding his fingers through England’s hair and whispering in his ear, “suck his cock.” He lightly tugged his hair, guiding his head to the tip of France’s cock, without thinking, he said, “I won’t leave you here.” Quiet enough for France not to hear. 

England moaned and tried to shake his head free, unable to stop fresh tears spilling down his cheek. He remembered what they were doing, what the original plan had been, and he realized what Spain meant. That he had to keep France occupied while he went searching for Mateo. It seemed like they made that plan years ago, completely gone off the rails from what he’d anticipated. And so, though he loathed doing so, when Spain grabbed his hair again and pulled him toward France’s thick dick, he whimpered and finally opened his mouth, taking him down and ignoring the wetness, the taste, the thought of where it had just been. He had to trust Spain wouldn’t leave him as he promised, and England felt himself sinking lower into an even more submissive state. 

“Ah, yes, that’s it. Suck me England, do it harder…” France murmured before going back to his own blowjob. 

Spain hesitated for a few seconds, edging towards the door. He bit his lip, hoping the intricate hinges wouldn’t make any noise to give away his position, he cracked the door open just a little bit, slipping out into the now late afternoon sun and being momentarily blinded. 

When his eyes adjusted he looked around for any signs of activity, but the deck was empty. 

Now… time to find Mateo. He looked around again, craning his neck to look up at the helm, but he couldn’t see anyone to raise the alarm, so he slunk across the deck towards the mast, hiding in its shadow as he tried to clear his thoughts enough to think as to where Mateo would be. 

At that moment he heard a noise coming from the bowels of the vessel, footfall drawing nearer. He shimmied around the mast out of sight and peered around it to watch Lucille emerge from below deck. Her attire was different now, a corseted dress replaced by a plain white lace-up shirt hidden partially by an open coat, coattails almost trailing the deck, black under-breast corset cinching her waist, and black skin-tight pants disappeared into her knee-high boots. She ascended the staircase, looking around the deck and to France’s stateroom, smirking to herself as she approached the helm. 

He watched her closely, the way her hair billowed around her features, unkempt and wild in the sea breeze.

He needed to find Mateo, quickly. 

He darted towards the underbelly of the galleon.

Lucille climbed the stairs to the helm, boots clacking against the wooden floor, she reached the wheel, turning to face forward and seeing Spain move in the corner of her eye, by the time she looked over he was gone. 

Oh. 

She grinned. 

An escapee. 

She descended the stairs to the helm, back onto the deck, tucked against her thigh was the pistol knife from the tavern, but as she reached the bottom of the stairs she reached for a new weapon, a polearm. Stalking after Spain with her shoulders hunched and head low like a lioness, she was silent as she disappeared beneath the deck, hyper-aware as she scanned the galley and surrounding areas. 

Spain ducked behind a barrel, grimacing at the memories that made him wonder why he should even go back to England. He’d looked up at Lucille as he’d flown down the stairs, their eyes briefly meeting before he’d fully hidden. Shit. She knew he was here. 

He held his breath, not daring to make a sound as he listened to the natural creaking of the vessel and the sound of his own heart. 

A creak of a floorboard not too far from where he was situated.

Shit. 

He peeked around the barrel, seeing Lucille just feet away, but her attention wasn’t directed at him. His heart was beating faster now, she was going to hear it and it’d be game over. She walked past the barrel, her knife pistol in his line of sight. He reached forward and unsheathed it, standing to his full height and holding it blade towards her. 

What he didn’t expect was the partisan. 

She spun on her heels, raising the large weapon and aiming for Spain. 

“There you are.” 

Spain ran for the exit, still clutching the weapon in his hand as he ran. 

She gave chase. Stride long and legs kicking powerfully as she followed him back on the deck. He was still running, and she thought about following for all of five seconds before she paused, raising the partisan in her hand and rearing her arm back. She created a guide with her other arm, hurling the weapon towards Spain and sending him to the floor. 

Pain erupted from his back, piercing through to his side as skin tore, muscle and sinew ripping to shreds as her aim struck true. His ribs shattered and he fell, stopping mid-fall as the blade pierced the deck and trapped him. Every breath was agony and he screamed, hovering above the deck. The partisan firmly in his body, the shape of the blade making dislodging it himself impossible, to fall further forward and hit the deck also impossible. 

He was suspended on the weapon, his eyes wide as he heard her draw nearer. She snatched her pistol knife from his hand, a white-knuckled grip being cruelly broken and snapped as she did so. 

She wordlessly towered over him. 

“Adios.” She reared her foot back and kicked his face hard. Once unconscious, she raised the blade from the deck, dragging his limp body towards France’s quarters still impaled on the weapon. 

“Francis~” She cooed, entering his quarters with utter disregard for what was taking place there. “You’ll never guess who I found snooping around the galley.”

She threw the polearm with Spain attached to the floor of his quarters, he was face down, blood dripping from his lips and oozing from the open wound on his chest. It’d missed his heart, but just barely, his lungs filling with blood and drowning him instead, with each breath a gurgling noise escaped his lips, half coughs only rattling his body and dislodging more blood from his airways. 

His eyes met England’s, hooded and barely able to stay conscious, he gave a half-smile in apology. 

England was so far gone, when he met Spain’s rueful gaze, his wry smile, he felt like he should be the one to apologize.

“Spain, no… Please, let him go- mmph!” England was cut off by France’s hand on the back of his head, shoving him down onto his dick and shutting him up all at once. England scrunched his eyes closed but didn’t fight it, going back to his sucking and bobbing, hips raised towards France’s face. He wasn’t reciprocating by sucking England anymore, instead sitting up and using his fingers and thumb to form a pinching motion between his prostate and his taint, putting pressure on him from both the inside and the outside, slowly rubbing his hand up and down as he massaged the sensitive spots. England mewled, trembling and desperate as he licked and kissed over France’s length. France grinned widely at Lucille and laughed breathily at Spain who was quickly bleeding over the floor. 

“My, my, Spain you should know better… We were having such a fun time too, why’d you have to ruin it by sneaking around like a rat? Ah, yeah, England right there, keep doing that, mmmmh!” France was preoccupied with England’s mouth, his skilled obedience. Already he’d had to stop him twice or he would have cum too quickly. But with Spain rapidly dying, Lucille watching on with her cat-like eyes, and England moaning and drooling and trying his hardest to please him, France didn’t stop him this time and bucked his hips up, holding England’s head in place so he could ram down his throat, hit the back and slide deeper as he came with a frenzied shout. England couldn’t swallow it all, some of it gushing upward and through his nose, burning his sinuses, leaking out his nostrils, a glob dripping from the corner of his mouth.

When France finally let go England pulled back with a hacking, shaking coughing fit that rattled his whole body, his throat raw, his ass on fire, his body bruised and stretched and covered in cum. He hadn’t felt this used in decades. Centuries even. He couldn’t pull himself together fast enough, knew he must look like a whore of Babylon naked and abused and still participating in his own rape. Was it even rape? He didn’t know. His pride felt as tattered as his body. When he’d gotten his coughing under control England smeared a hand down his face, wiping the cum from his nose and mouth and wiping it on the bed. 

France reached forward and ruffled his hair as if he were a favorite student. 

“That was very nice England, I can’t wait to do this again…” 

England pushed his hand off his head and mumbled a small “fuck off,” but didn’t deny it. He’d lost his previous bite. He looked at Spain, felt his chest twist painfully at the sight of him going ashen, and then he traced his green eyes up Lucille, taking in her powerful form and her intense gaze. There was something about her…

“Who are you?” England asked, his voice still rough from being fucked.

Lucille glared down at him, hazel-gold eyes alight with fire. 

“Do you think you’re in any position to question me?” She snarled, her foot digging into Spain’s side, causing another cough to rattle through his body, more blood splattering over the floor. Spain rasped, unable to get another breath into his body as she applied more pressure, wheezing as the air left him. She kicked Spain solidly in the ribs, jostling the partisan that impaled him before walking over to England, spinning the knife in her hand so the blade was pointing downwards. She leaned on her haunches, holding the blade to England’s throat. 

England felt distinctly vulnerable being naked with the blade hovering close, he leaned and scrabbled back, attempting to stand up but was stopped by France who grabbed his arms and wrapped him in a tight hug from behind, holding him still as the blade came closer. France perched his head over England’s shoulder leering at him and grinning with a knowing smile. 

“Don’t run away, England. What? Are you afraid?” France cooed in his ear.

England struggled to find his original fight, regain some of his lost dominance, still panting from being fucked, still undeniably intimidated by the knife so close to his jugular. He twisted his body, wrenching his shoulders back and forth, and scowled at the woman. 

“No! Get your bitch out of my face, France!” England hissed. 

Lucille laughed, “you have the roles mixed up, England,  _ dear.”  _

She kept the blade close to his throat, not moving any closer but not moving away either. 

“It’s a shame, really, it would’ve been fun taking over the empire. But alas, I have to settle for a tiny landlocked country instead.” 

England was confused by her words, it didn’t make sense what she was saying. 

“What the fuck are you on about? France, what bullshit have you been filling this human’s head with?” England asked, hating how his voice was still breathy. 

France laughed warmly and squeezed England tighter. 

“Oh, she does a much better job filling me than vice versa…” France murmured, shooting Lucille a heated sultry gaze. England shuddered, didn’t want to know but now was more confused than ever. Still, Spain was the one suffering. He was the only one allowed to stab him. 

“I don’t give a fuck what nasty shit you get up to, just let him go! Please, he’s dying! You have to take the blade out!” England said quickly, pleadingly, looking up and meeting the woman’s gaze. 

“And why would I do that, little island?” She smiled slyly, “maybe I  _ want _ him dead… because then he can’t stop me from killing his precious Andorra and taking what’s rightfully mine.”

England blinked dumbly, he still didn't understand. 

"What's yours? You're not a nation you can't-" England's eyes widened as he realized what she meant. England craned and looked back at France, heart hammering. 

"You're trying to pass it on to her… But France, you know you can't control it, you can't predict it…" England trailed off, feeling sick to his stomach. 

Lucille smirked, “we know, that’s what happened to the last Andorra.” She ran her thumb along her throat slowly, showily, wearing a manic expression. “We won’t make the same mistake this time, however. And I’ll do whatever it takes to get what belongs to me.” 

“Y--You’re insane…” Spain hissed from the floor, clinging onto consciousness stubbornly. “You can’t--” 

_ “Insane?”  _ Lucille repeated, “puh-lease… I know exactly what I’m doing. Right now, Andorra is in my bed, and as soon as I’ve gotten rid of you two pathetic excuses for pirates, I’ll be doing to him what I did to the last Andorra.”

Without warning, she drove the dagger deep into England’s stomach, expertly pulling the small trigger on the side of the blade and shooting him point-blank. She twisted the knife for good measure before she lifted the sharpened blade enough for the point to sit nicely in the open wound, suddenly slicing up, she cut up to the base of his sternum. 

“Shackle him. To the bed.” She commanded, gaze meeting France’s eyes. 

"Of course mi amor," France kissed England's neck as he gagged and spat up blood, moving him to the bed and slapping a cuff on him, eyes wide as his lifeblood flowed out rapidly, already shivering and feeling so very, very cold. 

Lucille smirked, standing to tower above them both and she beckoned France over, “let’s go check on our beloved Andorra, maybe… light a fire for him.” She laughed, heading towards the door, not even bothering to wipe the blood from her blade before tucking it away in its sheath against her thigh. 

Spain watched on helplessly, eyes barely open, vision blurred by unshed tears, it hurt so bad… he didn’t dare look down at the protruding blade. 

France chuckled darkly and patted England’s bloodless cheek, turned, and kneeled to stroke Spain's sweaty fringe. 

"You were both lovely… Just wait here, we'll play some more once we're out on the open ocean," France explained, standing to follow Lucille outside, buttoning up his shirt as he went. 

"We should commandeer his ship while we're at it…" France said, cut off as he stepped out into the deck and the door shut behind him. 

Once they were alone again, Spain let a shuddering sigh pass his lips, breaking into a coughing fit that left his whole body aching, the spontoon nestled in his chest jerked harshly and he cried out, sweat dripping from his body thanks to the pain and exertion, mingling with his blood on the floor. 

“We… have to help… Mateo…” 

He looked at England’s wound, feeling sick at the sight. 

“I--I’m sorry, I failed… I was nowhere near… Mateo when.... she found me…”

England groaned and held his fast-bleeding wound. 

"That traitorous France… he won't get away with this… I'm coming, Spain…" England panted, blood bubbling between his teeth, dragging himself across the bed and rolling to the floor with a gruff bark of pain. With his foot, he reached and kicked at the spear. It just jerked, not dislodged, and Spain made a horrible wrenching sound from the movement. 

"Fuck, I'm sorry Spain… shit, let me get closer…" he stretched his arms, scooted closer, was able to grab the spear with the crook of his elbow and wrench it out. It clattered loudly to the floor and Spain slumped as the blood flowed unhindered. 

"Come on, you're okay… Heal up already and get me out of here…" 

Spain groaned and whimpered, labored breaths leaving him more breathless, he curled up on himself as he felt the first tendrils of revival healing his wounds, slowly but surely. He tried to focus on the healing instead of the pain, but it was near impossible. 

“Heal...yourself…” Spain grinned, face etched with exhaustion and agony, but still, he was smiling. “She’s dangerous… She threw that spontoon… like it was nothing at all…” He grit his teeth as his bones fused together again, broken ribs snapping back into place, crushed and crooked fingers doing the same. 

England slumped against the side of the bed, his arms still held up by the chain. He had no strength to return to the bed, no energy to move whatsoever. 

“We should have known… the moment we realized they were together… that something like this would happen… I thought we got the jump… on France, but he was waiting… for something like this…” England wheezed, wanting to grab the wound at his stomach but no longer having the give to do so. 

Spain groaned, rolling onto his side and then onto his front, crawling towards the large spear-like weapon on the floor. With all his might he lifted it, body crying out in pain at the disturbed wounds.

"Fuck…:" he shakily held it up, hooking the shackle's chains, and forcing the weapon skyward to pull the chains taut, hearing them creak as he continued with forcing them.”Come on…” He hissed, watching the material splinter. 

England watched as Spain used the weapon for leverage and slowly wrenched his chain free from the bed. His hands dropped to his lap with the new slack and he immediately grabbed his wound, struggling up to his feet and grabbing the nearest shirt to shove against it, watching grimly as it quickly bled through staining dark red. 

“Fuck, I’m bleeding too much… There’s hardly any English on this island except my crew and god-knows-where they are… I heard a bunch of Spanish in town… Can you draw from any of them?” England asked gasping. His stomach was on fire, his insides torn and tattered like ribbons. Though the entry wound was modest the internal damage was significant. He wondered if it would be enough to kill him, or if he would manage to heal before that happened. Neither prospect sounded good. He staggered toward the door, grabbing his sword up from the floor with a piteous groan. 

Spain’s heart rate immediately jumped when he saw the sword, fearful of what he might do. He’d already tried drawing on his citizens on the island but it wasn’t working so effectively, because they didn’t know it was him, they had their loyalty to their country… but nothing to tie them to it, no affiliation outside of the island they resided on. The bleeding was lessening, but it still took all his might to use the reserve of energy he had left to utilize the fact. 

He looked at England’s gaping wound, cut open like she was ready to remove his organs. He grimaced. 

“Come on… focus… you did this before when you were paralyzed... you can do it again. Focus on healing…” 

“We don’t have time… Fuck… Look at what she did to us… Andorra is the one she wants… to kill… What do you think they’re doing to him… right now?” England gasped and grabbed the door handle, dragging it open just enough to look out. Blood continued to drip down his front, staining the wood. “Come on, the coast’s clear,” England said quietly, limping out onto the deck. 

Spain watched him, “wait…!” he called. Grabbing the sheet from France’s bed. And sweeping it around England’s body, tying it tightly around his chest in an attempt to at least help the skin fuse back together, to prevent anything from… falling out. It swallowed him up, the fabric dense and dwarfing England with how wide it was, but by the time he’d tied it, it looked not unlike a royal blue tunic, also protecting his modesty. “Okay. Now we can go.”

England didn’t know if it was the blood loss from the mortal wound or the fact that he could still feel Spain’s cum dribbling from his ass, but he felt oddly warmed, touched by the gesture. He brushed his knuckles over Spain’s cheek while he was still close.

“Thanks, love,” England said, catching his gaze one last time before they started off toward the hold. England gathered up the remaining chains on his arms, holding them and the sword in front of him, shuffling slowly but with death-grip determination. 

Spain reached for the partisan, feeling the weight of the weapon in his palm. “How did she throw this thing…?” He mumbled, it wasn’t lightweight like he’d assumed. 

He followed England. “I got as far as the galley last time... but there’s a corridor... leading off somewhere else, that must be where they are…” He held onto the polearm like a vice, a white-knuckle grip keeping it upright. Seriously, why was a spear so heavy? 

England nodded, it was easier than talking, and they had to maintain the element of surprise or it would never work. They inched closer, England trying desperately to regulate his breathing, and he could see the flick of candlelight around the corner of the threshold, voices murmuring. He gripped his sword, swallowed back the blood that kept bubbling up his throat, looked at Spain to make sure he was ready. 

Spain nodded, grip tightening on the polearm. Ready. 

They padded through the galley, it felt like a walk to the gallows. Spain struggled with shaking legs, as pale as a pristine white sheet, only he was covered with drying and congealing blood. He worried his lip between his teeth, looking at the shadows being cast on the walls of the ship from the candlelight. They looked like demons, menacing, looming over them. 

The corridor was just as grand as the rest of the vessel, no expense spared even below deck. His heart was pounding again, nerves lighting a fire in his veins and dancing the now well-known tune in his body. Carving through his bloodstream and creating new, meandering routes. 

Spain tried to stand up straight, instead finding that he couldn’t without tearing more skin, shooting pain in his chest where his organs and bones were still recovering. He heard voices, a distinct laugh that was Lucille coming from a room with an ornate door. He looked at England. 

“Of course… she’d have her own quarters…” England hissed quietly. 

Spain pressed his ear to the door, trying to listen through the wood. 

_ “... kill him?”  _

_ “Burn him like the Andorra before him.”  _

“We gotta move,” Spain said with urgency, pushing on the door to test its give. It didn’t budge. “Locked.” 

“Shit…” England groaned, clutching at the blood sheet wrapped around him. 

A click. 

The sound of a deadbolt sliding. 

Suddenly, they were face to face with France, but he wasn’t looking at them. “I’ll get us into open water, we can light the rowboat with Andorra inside--” he turned and without thinking, Spain’s fist connected to his cheekbone. Sending him flying back into the room. England went staggering in after France and kicked him in the face once he was down, snapping his neck to the side and flinging blood from his nose. He hadn’t even gotten a chance to orient himself before being kicked unconscious. England caught himself heavily and almost fell down himself, holding his own knees to stay upright, a hand over his belly. As his eyes adjusted he could see the scene they’d found. 

Spain followed, hot on England’s heels, freezing when he saw the state of the room. Mateo was restrained in a chair, covered in bruises and angry-looking welts, his head bowed against his chest. He didn’t move when the sound of them bursting in should’ve disturbed him and for a second Spain feared the worst. 

“Mateo!” 

“Oh, you broke free very fast, we’re not even out of the bay yet,” Lucille grinned, drawing her blade from the sheath against her thigh. Spain held up the polearm, aiming at her and keeping her at a distance, he stood defensively in front of England, side-stepping slowly to try and get between Lucille and Mateo. This seemed to amuse Lucille, who watched with a cocksurety that Spain wanted to wipe from her face. Preferably with a sword. 

She stepped closer to them, not humoring their attempt at trying to get to Andorra. Raising her knife-pistol and passing the barrel between the two of them. 

Spain lunged forward, more to try and get her to back away, “you’ve got a death wish.” 

“As if I’m afraid of dying when I watched my country burn at the hands of French soldiers, it’s clear  _ this  _ Andorra is unwilling to fight for our country, so _ I  _ will.” She suddenly changed the direction of the pistol, firing and hitting Mateo in the dead center of his chest. 

He didn’t react aside from his body jerking upon the entry of the bullet. 

“I’ll kill him, take what belongs to me, stop this neutrality that leaves my country in ruin, and then I’ll have my revenge.” 

England backed against the wall, half to gain some cover, half to give him something to lean on. Leaping into the room and kicking France hadn’t done his wound any favors and he breathed tight and fast through his gritted teeth, trying to keep down the rising fire in his middle. One hand over his stomach, his other reached blindly along the wall behind him, feeling for something, anything he could use. His hand curled around something metal and heavy and when Lucille shot Andorra he wrenched it forward and flung it right at her. It turned out to be a candelabra, five separate gilded stems holding five white candles that wheeled and trailed in the air as it went flying at the woman. 

With cat-like reflexes, Lucille reached out to block the candelabra, failing to notice the burning candles, ducking her head in response and her hand swatting it away. Blood spattered the floor and up the veil around the bed, the sharp edges of the silver candle holder cutting into the skin of her arm and hand. She looked down at the red streaks on her olive skin before looking up at England with rage in her eyes. 

Without hesitation, she shot him again, the bullet shredding and embedding into his body. 

The bullet hit him in the chest, making his already difficult breathing suddenly feel impossible. Surprisingly it didn’t hurt, just another impact on his body and it took England a second to realize he was sliding down the wall to the floor, his knees giving out, his legs felt like they weren’t even there, his arms heavy and leaden as his breath rattled wetly, a small cough setting a rivulet of red running down the corner of his mouth. 

“Fuck, she got me…” England groaned.

Lucille cursed, reaching over to her bedside table where more bullets rested in a pouch, she started to reload the pistol, her right arm was near useless, cut to ribbons by the candelabra, and she had to hold the knife-pistol with the crook of her elbow, left hand threading the bullets into the barrel. 

Spain only had one chance. He ran to England and grabbed the sword he’d been holding, closing the distance between himself and Lucille, rearing back to swing at her. She blocked the attack with the dagger, bullets clattering to the floor and rolling in all directions. 

Their blades remained locked together, a battle of strength taking place. Spain found himself losing in his weakened state, his sword falling below the dagger and his stance turning defensive. He grabbed the handle of the knife, trying to redirect the blade. But her foot collided with his chest and sent him to the floor. He rolled, losing his grasp on the sword and he scrambled to put some space between them, shuffling back. 

Spain reached for the blade, knocking the hilt with his fingertips and almost moving it out of reach. 

Lucille smirked, twirling the knife in her hand so the blade was facing down and tucking it back into the sheath on her leg, she picked up the sword Spain had been using, brought her hand up over her head, ready to bring it down when white-hot pain invaded her senses. She jumped back, a tremble to her body as she raised the blade defensively, gripping her side. 

She hadn’t been expecting that. Her hand moved from her waist, stained red and she covered the wound back up as Spain climbed to his feet, holding the knife-pistol in a white-knuckled grip. The corset had mostly protected her from a fatal direct hit, but it’d cut deep enough to shock her.

“You really should find a better place to keep your weapons…” Spain chided. 

“Hey! You assholes! Look!” England shouted from his heap on the floor. One of the flung candles managed to land on the piled fabric of the bed curtains and a hot narrow flame was licking rapidly up the side of the bedpost. “Grab it before the whole ship goes up!” England panted and crawled, getting closer to Mateo’s chair, groaning as he moved. 

Spain wasted no time in reaching the candle, he crossed the room and grabbed the white candle, and extinguished the flame, but the fabric around the bedpost was still alight. He analyzed the situation, with two injured people he couldn’t just escape, it would be next to impossible. His best bet was to extinguish the fire. He took a chance, ripping down the soft silk around the bed and stomping on it desperately, gripping his torso tightly as the movement made his chest ache. 

He caught Lucille in the corner of his eye, she was frozen where she stood. 

England had gotten a second wind somehow, had managed to struggle all the way up to his feet, using Mateo and his chair as handholds to pull himself upright. He took a huge breath and then launched himself toward the window, able to make the short journey in a few faltering steps before he caught himself against the window ledge. He left bloody smeared handprints as he fought with the latch but eventually, he was able to throw it open, smoke already filling the room and starting to spill out the window. 

“Quick, Spain, fling it out here!” England strained to say, already falling back to the ground. 

Spain jabbed at the flaming fabric with the knife, lifting it on the knife’s edge, and rushed to the window chucking it from the ship. Only then did he fall to his knees beside England gasping for breath.

France groggily felt himself coming back around, the first thing he noticed was the dense stinging smell of smoke. Next, he felt the sharp aching pain in his face, blood in his mouth, nose throbbing, it felt as if he had glass shards lodged in his cheek. He groaned and slowly pulled his limbs in so he could rise to his hands and knees, bring a hand to his face, and hover gingerly over the bright blooming bruise there. He looked around and gave a small devastated sound, finally seeing the black smoke, the burnt bed, the soot and ash, and burnt woodwork that was still smoldering and burning in small spots throughout the room. The window was streaked with burn marks and blood and every single person in the room, himself included, was leaking blood everywhere. It was a disaster. 

France ignored the pain in his face, in his head, shoved it down to deal with the scoundrels who dared destroy his beautiful ship. They were sitting together leaning on one another beneath the window, knees drawn up as if they were just boys hanging out together. But France knew they were both wounded and worn out and would be no match for him and Lucille. 

“Mademoiselle, shall we dispatch these rogues?” France asked playfully, turning to look at Lucille. He stopped cold when he finally noticed how stockstill she stood, how her dark clothes hid the free-flowing wounds on her arm and palm and her side. “Lucille! You’re hurt!”

She jolted at France’s voice, mind glued to the prospect of pain and loss and fire and heat breaking free to turn and acknowledge him. “As are you.” She said, her voice level as she sunk to her knees, not moving from the middle of the room. 

England laughed, a weak dry humorless laugh as he continued to bleed. 

“What a fine kettle of fish this is. What now? We all keep trying to kill each other until your bitch gets unlucky? Or can we all just stop now?” England asked sarcastically, his surly attitude back despite the hole in his stomach. 

Spain sat beside him, finally catching his breath and grimacing when he saw the state of the room without a haze of anger covering him. He looked at France, and then to Lucille, taking in their respective positions in case he had to fight again. Next, his eyes went to Mateo, still restrained to the chair but his eyes forcing themselves open. They made eye contact and Spain felt relief, unlike anything he’d ever felt before. 

“Mateo…” 

Spain decided at that moment that Mateo was alright, so France deserved to know what’d happened. He was distrusting of the nation after everything that’d happened… but their Andorra was alive. His Andorra deserved to be too. 

“She’s gonna need… medical attention.” He said, nodding at Lucille. “She has… less superficial wounds too…” 

France shook himself and nodded, striding to the door and calling for help, for the doctor, and soon several more Frenchmen entered the cabin, quickly dousing the remaining embers, cleaning and bandaging wounds, starting with Lucille, then France, then England and Spain. Even Mateo received bandages for his wound, though he still remained chained to the chair. Without the adrenaline of the fight or the fire or life-endangering pursuits, England felt like he could pass out right then and there. They healed more efficiently with sleep and he could feel bone-deep exhaustion seeping through him. 

England interrupted France who was conversing with some of his men, “Hey, dog-face, we’re going to sleep in your bed. And I actually mean  _ sleep _ . Unchain us already,” England demanded, rattling his wrist in his cuff and nodding toward Mateo, ever a brat even when bloody and beaten down to the ground. 

France rolled his eyes and snapped at his men who began to unchain him. 

Lucille, who’d remained silent up until that moment turned to look at France, “you’re listening to  _ them?”  _

“Please, trust me, mi amor… It’s simpler to release them and keep them close than to fight them tooth and nail the entire time. Please… We all need time to recover. Yourself included,” France explained gently. He too felt the siren’s call of sleep, was old enough and patient enough to push a plan back once it had gone sufficiently off the rails. He knew it was harder for Lucille, being mortal and motivated made such a delay unthinkable to her. But he’d soothe her with some gifts and some attention later, he knew exactly how to smooth her ruffled feathers, cosset her fingers until she unclenched her fist. “There’s still time, mi amor,”

Lucille sighed, closing her eyes and burying her face in her uninjured hand. “Fine…” She went back to gripping the wound on her side. Settling against the foot of her bed, curled up and looking incredibly small. 

Mateo had been moved to sit beside Spain, the latter clapping his hand on Mateo’s knee. 

**“Did you have fun?”** He smirked. 

Mateo scratched the side of his nose and looked away.  **“Up until the killing part.”**

Spain hummed.  **“The killing part always ruins the mood.”** He elbowed him and laughed, earning a smile from Mateo. Then he looked at England, “the dying part ruins the mood, too.” 

England sniffed and cocked his jaw out. “What? You’re the one who got killed by a girl, dumbass,” England said haughtily. “Come on, I’m knackered.” England slowly got up to his feet and held a hand out to Spain to help him up as well. 

Spain took his hand, pulling himself up. 

**“You coming, Mateo?”**

**“I think I’m going to get some fresh air, but I’ll only be on the deck.”**

Spain nodded, looking at France and Lucille as the three of them left the room.

England called over his shoulder as he shuffled away, “And send some food up, you shitknob!”

France pulled a sigh, a world-weary glance, and a dismissive wave of his hand. “Oui, oui, you annoying fly. Begone,” he turned back to talk with Lucille, kneeling on her level though England couldn’t hear what he said as they left and headed above deck. It was a slow painful process making it back to the bed and by the time England reached it he wanted nothing more than to flop down on it and pass out. He would heal, wake up, make his leave, and be sure to bring both his prisoners along with him. Maybe torch the rest of France’s ship on his way out… But that would have to wait. He toed his boots off and then fell face-first into the bed, regretting it the moment his wounds landed against the bedding. 

“Oof, ouch, fuck… Should have thought that through,” England moaned, curling on his side and then going still. He could fall asleep just like that. It would only take a moment. 

Spain joined him on the bed, sitting down with care and removing his own boots, he crawled up the bed, trapping England against the bed. “Did you cum?” 

England was irritated by the instant pulse of interest in his dick, despite being tired and wounded and still sore from the sex prior to that, he immediately went hard and a shiver scuttled down his spine from the rough way the words tickled his neck, his exposed back. The sheet wound and draped over him did nothing to hide his rising boner and he turned his blushing face into the bed and huffed grumpily, “No, I didn’t,” and then added more quietly, “asshole…”

Spain chuckled, smiling as he lay beside him, he shimmied in closer until his chest was pressed flush to England’s back. Hands working to unwrap him from the bloody sheet. “I won’t torment you this time, then.” He hiked the fabric up, hand slipping under it to cup England’s erection, slowly, gently working his hand over it. “How do you want me? My mouth? My ass? My dick?”

England didn’t know why it was affecting him so much, the direct words, the simple choice laid out for him, normally he would have taken control and done whatever felt right. But with Spain taking the lead, asking him to tell him how he wanted it, it felt shamefully erotic and England caught himself blushing and indecisive and horribly ashamed. He shook his head against the bed and ground out in a trembling voice.

“I had two dicks up my ass at once today… I don’t fucking care what you do, Spain,” England tried to sound commanding, nonchalant, but failed horribly. His cock was fully hard in Spain’s hand, his voice small and tired, there was no denying who had the control. 

Spain thought for a moment, noticing the lack of command in England’s voice, the lack of control. He closed his eyes and puffed out a breath of air that teased England’s hair. It was hard to decide what to do, a primal part of him wanted to take England while he was down, the other didn’t like England’s submissive side and wanted to bring back some of his fight. 

But his need to take control won out, and he rolled England onto his front gently lifting his hips just a little, slotting their bodies together and nosing his nape, planting open-mouthed kisses on his skin, rolling his hips against England’s ass but not sinking in yet. He reached for the box on the bedside, dipping his fingers into it and slicking himself up, wanting to make it as easy for the other nation as possible. Slowly he pushed inside.

England grabbed the sheets, bit the pillow, let out a high keening moan as he pushed his hips back to meet Spain. Feeling him push through the sore entrance, filling him again, more comfortably than before, more gently and sweetly, England felt his cock twitching and drooling precum over the sheets, and he couldn’t slow down his breathing or the rapid patter of his heart. He rode in so deep and smooth, England cried out again when he bottomed out, unable to stop moving, wriggling his hips in tiny little circles, squirming for more motion.

“Please, Spain… Fuck me,” England moaned before going back to biting the bed.

Spain moaned softly at the tone England used, the desperation and need, the pliancy and willingness. He began moving his hips in long thrusts, still gentle but full of intent and purpose. His hands cupped England’s hips, guiding him in a slow rhythm, gradually working up to a slightly faster pace. 

England felt the sobs from earlier returning. It felt too good, he couldn’t let out a noise, couldn’t let himself fall into the rhythm, even as Spain moved faster and faster, steadily edging him closer to the cliff, could feel the very ledge under him and it wouldn’t take much more to push him over entirely. He’d been so overwhelmed before it was impossible to stop anything, but now he wanted it, he reached for it. Without a single thing touching his cock he could feel the pleasure swelling and rising up in him - Spain’s thrusting didn’t hurt at all, just pure rhythmic pleasure setting his release to a fast pace. England gave an inarticulate scream in time with Spain’s tempo as he splattered over the sheets, toes curling, back arching, ass spasming. It felt as if a giant stone had been lifted from his chest as he came, now just the comforting pressure of Spain against his back remained. 

Spain moaned as England came undone around him, thrusting in deeply and milking him of his orgasm, feeling his own begin to crest over his body, with one last roll of his hips he came undone, gasping as he came weakly before falling against England gracelessly, exhausted. 

England lay there panting, feeling the wet warmth of Spain’s softening cock inside him, and couldn’t decide whether he liked it or if it felt gross, couldn’t decide whether to call him a fatass and to get off, or just stay still and enjoy his steady weight. He was spared the choice, however, as the door to the chambers swept open without a knock and France strode in carrying a silver tray of food. He stopped short when he saw Spain balls-deep in England and let out a nasally laugh, coming closer to set the tray on the bed and trace the tips of his fingers up both their legs. 

“I see you weren’t tired enough to stop from indulging… Room for one more?” France said it as a question but was already rolling his sleeve up, reaching between their legs to probe England’s stuffed hole. 

England stiffened and clenched and the pleasant warmth he’d been battling against all but evaporated and instead it was the more familiar pain and fear and need to fight back that took over. 

“No, fuck off, don’t you dare France! I’m not just some hole for you to use!” 

“Oh, but your hole is so nice… We already got you stretched out, right Spain?”

England shook his head but felt his heart sinking. He would have preferred to not cum at all if it meant taking yet another round of double penetration. The shivers were back again, hating himself for looking so weak… 

“Actually, France, we’ve just finished.” Spain swatted his hand away from England. “We’re going to be sleeping now, so shouldn’t you get back to Lucille?”

France pouted but removed his hand, crossing his legs to sit conversationally on the bed, plucking a morsel and bringing it to his mouth. 

“I would, but she’s  _ busy _ with your boy toy. Ah, and don’t worry, she’s not trying to kill him this time. I promise you. I’ve had enough damage on this ship for one day…” France complained, chewing as he spoke. He slid the tray closer, kicked his own boots off, and clambered fully into the bed, lying next to Spain and England. He yawned and stretched, wincing as it disturbed the bruises on his face. 

“You got me pretty good,” France commented neutrally, tonguing a sore spot in his mouth. 

Spain hummed, “you deserved it.” He situated himself on the bed, climbing under the covers and also covering England to offer him some comfort and safety. His eyes lingered on the food but he didn’t take any. “Doesn’t it bother you?” He asked quietly, “that she’s with another man.” 

France laughed again, more genuine this time. “Mon ami, heavens no! She is not some exotic bird I can keep caged up in my bedroom, only to sing for me. No, she is far more beautiful flying free. I wouldn’t stop her just as she wouldn’t think to chide me. Our relationship is far more than simply physical,” France concluded, shifting to get more comfortable and pulling the covers over him as well. 

“Yeah, according to her and Mateo your forces annexed their country, and all that that implies,” Spain frowned, “sounds like she’s caged to me.”

France turned over in bed, presenting his back to Spain. 

“Oh sure, you must know all about that, Spain. It’s not as if you were his best neighbor either. Don’t get the wrong idea, I didn’t take her when I invaded. She followed me. I’ve been training her ever since,” France said. 

Spain went quiet. “Alright…” he looked down, “well, I think we’ve both made mistakes with Andorra, and I think we should come to a solution together.” He cleared his throat. “Maybe, a co-ruled state or something, I don’t know.” 

“We should just kill Andorra and dissolve the little upstart altogether, don’t you think? Split him right down the middle,” France said lightly, still facing away. It was impossible to tell if he was joking or not. 

“Do it and I’ll kill you.” He glared. “Doesn’t it bother you knowing you’ll outlive her? Or is that the romantic appeal?”

France didn’t answer for a long moment until he finally murmured, “She won’t die if she becomes a nation.” Then he rolled over onto his stomach, head still turned firmly away, and settled deeper into the covers, already fading into sleep. 

England had been quietly listening and glanced up to see Spain’s face. He knew what his first mate meant to him, more so now that he’d become a nation himself. He reached to stroke his face, feeling grateful that Spain had defended him from France’s sexual appetite. 

“Hey, it’s okay. We’ll protect him,” England said quietly.

Spain looked at England for a moment, green eyes holding a glimmer of hope for a few seconds… then his eyes grew dark and distrustful. 

_ “We? _ Mateo and I are your prisoners; you’re going to trade me for everything in the Spanish treasury and you’ll probably use Mateo to take Andorra from this bastard--” he thumbed towards France “-if there’s one thing I can count on, it’s being unable to count on you.” 

He climbed over France’s body, struggling from the bed and making for the door. 

“Spain, wait! Come on, it’s not like that!” England said, propping up on his elbows and watching Spain storm out of the room. He sighed and heaved himself back down to the bed. “Fine, be that way. I don’t care,” England huffed, turning onto his side as well. He was too tired and injured to go after him, let him sulk and stay awake while he healed in bed. England had just gotten himself to stop thinking about Spain, to focus on the softness of the bed and the heaviness of his eyelids when he was jolted back awake in an instant as France rolled over and slipped an arm over his waist, bringing their naked bottoms closer together. 

“O-oi, we’re done with that, understand? Go to sleep without touching me, you letch,” England grumbled ignoring the fear in his belly as he said it. He couldn’t show any hesitation or France would be all over him. 

France wriggled in closer, hand running up and down his side, cock nudging between his asscheeks. 

“Oh, but England, why should I stop when you can’t stop me? It’s the perfect opportunity, right?” France asked as if it was the most matter of course thing to say, the most obvious course of action. The fear England had been suppressing and keeping a tight rein on broke free and stampeded through him. 

“N-no, France! I don’t want this! I’m too tired, I’m too sore-”

“Hmm, but not too tired or sore for Spain, yes? What, don’t tell me you have feelings for him…”

“Of course not! I would never!” England spat out harshly, fingers digging into France’s forearm which was draped over him, circled around to the front of his chest. He tensed for a fight, everything in him going taut and strained as he felt France’s fingers rub over his sides beneath the covers. 

“Then stop being such a tease and get me off. I know you want to, my slutty little island… Come on, give big brother a hand…” France grabbed his dick, squeezing so his hips shoved back against France, rubbed the naked erection he felt there. Still holding him by the dick, France’s other hand reached down to part his cheeks, stroke at his wet and stretched hole. 

“Mmmm, come on, we can’t let it go to waste, not after all the prep we did. I don’t know what you’re both thinking, imagine sleeping in my bed and not sleeping with me. Foolish.” France wasn’t being coy any longer, no more excuses of touches under the cover. He rolled over on top of England, his dick sliding in neatly as he did it and he grabbed England by the wrists to stretch him out, grabbed them both in one hand to hold him down while he used his other to hold his hips, begin slamming his own into him. 

England couldn’t get away, couldn’t stop him, couldn’t even use his words to deny him. As he groaned and felt France enter him yet again, another aching rape to add to the count, he wondered why it felt so much worse now. Spain had just done the exact same thing to him, but the difference was astonishing. England could feel himself crying, shuddering, his ass actually going numb from the motion against it. With Spain, it had felt like sparks and fireworks and celebratory cannon fire. Now, he held himself still, tried to dissociate from what was being done to him, and just waited for it to be over. 

France, true to his word, didn’t take long. A simple maintenance fuck to help him sleep more soundly. After only a few minutes of thrusting, he rumbled deep in his chest and planted his hips even deeper, spilling his seed into England. He pulled off without another word, without a shred of thanks or comfort, and flopped next to England, closing his eyes and rolling over to finally go to sleep. 

England laid next to France, perfectly still, trying to rein in his tears, trying to control his breathing. He didn’t say anything either, didn’t want to acknowledge what they both knew had just happened. Had happened before. Would happen again. He carefully scooted over to the edge of the bed, gaining some more space between him and France before shutting his eyes as well. Where he’d almost been asleep only a few moments prior, England suddenly found himself wide awake, still exhausted but unable to relax, unable to leave. He lay there on his side, listening to France’s light snores, and gripped himself tightly, holding onto his shudders. 

He caught himself wishing Spain was there with him. At least Spain would hold him after he fucked him. 


	6. Changing Like the Tides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England and Spain form an alliance that neither fully understands.

Spain left the room in a hurry, his throat hurt, his eyes stung, and finally the dam burst as he made it to the deck. He didn’t know why he was so upset, but it felt like he’d just lost his crew all over again. 

He sat down on a barrel, looking at the setting sun and wishing he didn’t feel so alone. It was getting cold now, the sea breeze becoming a land breeze, changing like the tides as the sun-warmed water began to cool. He sighed, lifting a leg to hold close to his body as the other dangled over the side of the barrel and he kicked it with his heel. He wiped his eyes on his knee, sniffling. 

Fuck… 

He exhaled shakily, fuck…

Spain couldn’t stop thinking about England, leaving him in the same room as France racked his brain, leaving him full of guilt. But he couldn’t go back, he had a point to make. Besides… England could handle himself, he could do it perfectly to him, so France should be no different. 

He swallowed thickly, France should be no different…

The door to the captain’s quarters opened and shut quietly, England shuffled out, hunched over around his wound. He had his boots on, his jacket and pants and still the blue sheets stained red wrapped tight around his middle. He didn’t look around, didn’t see Spain over on the barrel, just slowly and with one hand helping hold him up and guide him against the wall, the railing, carefully made his way to the gangway. He kept his head down, his eyes covered. He started to disembark.

Spain heard his footsteps, looking up to see him leaving the ship. He coughed fake and loudly to try and catch his attention, hoping he wouldn’t have to call out to him. 

England paused for a half-second but didn’t look, didn’t stop, if anything he shuffled with more urgency, tilted forward down the slope of the gangway. 

“Hey!” Spain called, jumping down from the barrel but his legs quaking beneath him and threatening to give out. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” He asked, leaning over the rail.

England didn’t say anything in response, grabbed the rail to help him move faster down the plank, nearly halfway across it. He kept his head down, his shoulders hunched, squeezing through as if being hailed with arrows. 

“Running away and leaving us to his mercy? Coward!” He shouted, rounding the rail and storming down the gangway. 

“Spain, just stop… I don’t care anymore. Take Andorra, join France, murder that bitch, I don’t give a fuck anymore. I’m not involved, happy now? You can go join some mortal’s crew for all I care, blend in like a human for a few decades like you’re so good at it,” England snarled, “I’m going to my ship, and not you or France or anyone else can stop me,” he concluded, still not looking Spain in the face, not meeting his eyes. He reached the deck and realized he’d have to walk on his own, no ropes or rails to help hold him up. He took a steadying breath and stepped out, acting more confident than he felt. Without anything to grab his legs immediately gave out and he tumbled to his knees on the boardwalk, catching himself and growling in frustration at his own weakness. 

Spain watched on, his anger being replaced by a shattering sensation in his chest, the pull was stronger and his throat hurt, even more, he strode down to England, slipping onto his knees beside him and sighing. 

“You might not care,” he paused, wondering whether it was a good idea to say what he was about to say. “But I do. Arguably too much.” His hand clapped the back of England’s head, no force behind his action. “Dumbass.” No bite to his insult. 

He looked to the darkening sky, seeing the first glimmers of starlight, a crescent moon. He blinked, finding his eyes drawn back to England. He looked tired. Broken. Everything in between, and he felt guilty for it… he had been helping protect Mateo. With a scowl and harsh words, he’d been helping since they’d stepped foot on the ship, sacrificing himself, getting beaten and bloodied, all for a tiny landlocked nation. 

“Come on…” He gripped England under his arms, tugging him to his feet and wrapping one of England’s arms around his shoulders, his own arm coming to rest around England’s waist. He turned around, leading him back onto the ship. “You’re not getting away that easily - we have a nation to protect.” 

England didn’t argue, just felt himself hanging more heavily in Spain’s arms, allowing himself to be steered back onboard. He leaned into Spain, felt his arm warm and secure around his middle, and hung his head in defeat. He couldn’t help but rely on him.

“Just… Just don’t leave me alone again, okay?” England asked quietly, mortification and self-loathing coating the words so thickly it made him mumble. He ducked his head against Spain after he said it, blinking back tears, controlling his breathing, making sure he couldn’t see him that closely. He used the excuse of Spain helping him walk and depended on it, leaned into it, needing something safe. 

Spain looked down, in the corner of his eye he was all too aware of England’s hunched body like he was protecting something, hiding something from the world. He hummed, “I won’t, promise.” Although he had a feeling it would be a lie, how could he promise something when he knew as soon as England grew sick of him he’d probably get thrown overboard. But the word had slipped out before he could stop it; held too much power behind it. 

Spain took him back to the deck, bypassing France’s quarters and heading into the galley, he sat England down on one of the benches. 

“Let’s steal his wine.” 

He reached for two mugs and approached a barrel, “how did you do it? Like this?” he smacked one of the mugs against the bung, but it didn’t budge. For a moment the room was silent, and then Spain broke into a cackle. “Fuck me that’s harder than it looks.” 

England looked over, actually looking at Spain for the first time and a wry smile was pulled to his lips. He cleared his throat, blinked again as if waking up, and said in a strained voice, “You have to get the right angle.” He stood up and hobbled over, grin growing more mischievous the closer he got. He took the offered mug from Spain and rolled the barrel so it was at a 45-degree angle to the floor, striking the base of the mug against it from there. Rich, dark red wine began to glug forth and he caught some in his mug, allowing Spain to fill his cup as well before rolling it back upright and was about to replug it when a positively demonic smile took over his face. 

“Hey, Spain. Hold this barrel for me…” England set his mug aside and scrambled up on top of a different upright one, regaining his balance before undoing his pants and pulling his dick out. “Let’s see how refined his French palate  _ really  _ is!” England cackled and aimed at the open bunghole before letting loose a stream of piss, replacing the wine they’d just taken with his own brand.

Spain held the barrel, bursting into another fit of laughter as he watched England piss into the wine. “Let’s roll it to the front so it’s the first one he opens.” He laughed, replacing the stopper once England was finished. 

“First one?” England laughed, reaching down to grab his mug and drain it in several long chugs. He exhaled loudly, swiped his arm over his mouth, and kicked over another barrel from his perch. 

“I’m gonna piss in every single one of his barrels, even if it takes me all night.” England jumped down and went white as a sheet from the impact of the landing, stumbling and then falling to his knees with a shaky laugh before dragging himself back upright to grin at Spain, looking deranged in the lowlight of the galley. 

“You wanna help?” England giggled. 

Spain shrugged, “I mean, my piss is rainbows and sunshine; yours is toxic waste, I’ll leave destroying his wine to you. Besides, it looks like you need to… unleash something powerful.” He took a seat on the benches. “And if it’s a shit don’t let me stop you.” 

“Fuck you, it’s worse than that you piece of shit!” England crowed and slammed open the next barrel, his low mood suddenly skyrocketing to manic places. His wounds were bleeding wine but he couldn’t feel it anymore as he filled his mug and pounded another helping of the stuff down. His stomach which should have been tattered and on fire, instead just felt warm and full, somehow far away. It made his next move easier to do. England lifted his leg, pants left pooled on the ground, and braced himself against the barrel, taking his own two fingers and sucking them before quickly sinking them into his own ass, bending awkwardly to do so. He winced, bit his lip, felt some of his bravado leave him as he opened himself up, and felt the ooze of cum down his fingers, sliding into his palm. 

He felt himself laughing, breathy, on the very verge of morphing into crying, but he wouldn’t let it, kept veering back into humor using the wine, his own self-deprecating humor. 

“Spain, look at this shit, ha ha ha, fuck, h-he’s gonna get it back… Heh, heh, he… I’m full of it, got enough for this whole damn hold!” England let his leg drop and caught himself against the barrel again, hand held glistening in front of him as if holding an invisible fruit, and England was blinking hard again before he frowned and smeared the mess of cum, blood, shit into the wine barrel, dipping his fingers in to rinse them with alcohol before withdrawing and replug it. He wiped his hands on the sheet, red wine blending perfectly with the red blood. They both stained a deep magenta against the royal blue of the sheet. 

England kicked the next barrel, already cracking it open and drinking down a third glass, then a fourth before gagging and rolling it back up. He leaned against it, slumped over on it, and remembered a time when he’d had Spain like this. It had only been a few days ago. England started laughing again and lifted his hip, standing on his tiptoes so he could sway his bare ass back and forth. 

“Spain… I’m gonna need more…” and that was all England could get out before the laughing fit took over. He couldn’t stop. It was so damn funny. 

At first, Spain found it amusing, watching England slowly descend into what he hoped was a natural menace. 

“You’re disgusting!” He laughed loudly. 

But when he leaned over the barrel, he felt his stomach drop and his heart lurch in his chest. 

“N--No, I can’t do that,” he said, looking away and shielding his eyes. It was still too raw, too painful a memory, too painful an experience. His throat felt tight and he found it hard to breathe, nausea rolling through his body, he stood, about to leave when he remembered his promise and cursed himself for promising in the first place. 

“Why don’t we do something else,” he said trying to change the subject. He looked around the galley, seeing fully stocked shelves and perishable foods, definitely a luxury by anyone’s standard. “I could make us something to eat.”

England’s laughter died away and he was silent and motionless over the barrel. The rejection, even if he’d been half-joking, still hurt more than he expected. He took several breaths and pushed up, reached down, and fetched his pants, pulling them back up without looking. He processed what Spain had said.

“Food, yeah, right… You do that,” England said. He simply spit in the open barrel before replugging it and rolling it over with the other contaminated ones. He was angry at himself for going so far. Angry at Spain for not going far enough. Angry at France for being France. He re-tied his pants and stalked over to the kitchen. Once he got over it, the thought of food was a welcome one. “What does the snail-sucker have?” England asked, leaning against Spain to look. 

“Uhhh… some different meats, fish… bread…” He rummaged through the kitchen, “He has a lot, actually.” He found himself smiling at the gentle pressure against his side, he looked at England, bit his lip, and felt his cheeks heating up. He looked away quickly. “Nothing quick to make, though.” 

“Hmm. Can’t beat bread and jerky. I’d rather gnaw on a fish head than go back to the plate in his room,” England said, kneeling and reaching for a dark rye loaf, ripping it open to grab a soft center piece and carelessly leaving the rest of the loaf in two uneven chunks. He chewed the bread and swallowed it with some difficulty, needing more wine to wash it down. He wondered if he could even digest anything with the state of his guts… Still, he felt hungry. Might as well try. 

Spain watched him, more than he should’ve. He felt his gaze lingering more and more as time went on. He still felt England’s closeness, his body heat, and could practically hear his brain thinking. He was probably overthinking, again. He thunked his head against the top of England’s, staying there. 

“Stop thinking for a minute.” 

“Huh?” England said, mouth full of bread. He twisted to look at Spain but he remained firmly lodged on the crown of his head. “What’re you on about?”

“I can practically hear your brain working overtime, and knowing you, you’re overthinking something that’s simple.” 

“Hmmph, of course, someone as simple-minded as you would say something like that. Some of us don’t have the luxury,” England said snootily, but he didn’t shove Spain away, if anything he leaned slightly into his touch against his back.

Spain chuckled softly, his chest vibrating with the sound. “Someone as simple-minded as myself can turn your brain into a pile of mush, don’t test my skills, England.” 

“You’re proving my point. Just a dick with legs,” England said with a grin, shoving some soft brown bread into Spain’s mouth over his head to stop him from retorting right away. The wine was starting to go to his head.

Spain was taken by surprise, by the sudden clump of bread in his mouth. Chewing, he still didn’t move from England, his jaw clicking loudly as he chewed. When he swallowed, he felt a strange sensation take over him, side-eyeing England and biting his lip softly. 

He saw England’s hand with another piece of bread, coming up to his mouth. He didn’t want it.

So, he did something stupid instead. 

He gripped England’s wrist, ceasing his movement, and lifted his head only to duck it again and take England’s lips in his, it lacked the aggression of the last kiss, but it still carried intent and purpose. 

England felt his wrist being held, his head being turned, and suddenly Spain was right there, his lips closing the distance and moving against his own. England felt torn asunder, kissing always confused him more than anything else, it was why he kept his trysts with other nations strictly to sex. Or, at least he had in the past. Things were starting to blur uncomfortably around Spain and he kept his eyes open as they kissed, tried to see how it felt for its own sake, but the alarm bells were ringing in his head and the wine was making everything spin and the last time Spain had kissed him it had been with t-two - two dicks up his ass, and he didn’t know what it meant now, not after he had rejected him not even a minute ago, and goddamn, they were still going and England’s eyes were still open and he felt his thoughts spiraling unpleasantly as he kissed back and didn’t know why. 

Spain had closed his eyes the instant they’d connected, one hand gripping England’s wrist, the other cupping his chin. It took a few moments of confidence-shattering nothing, to the point he was about to give up and go throw himself overboard, before England began kissing him back, feeling the tremble and barely-there slide of his lips against his. 

Spain felt as if he’d just been shot, the sudden jolt in his body knocking him for six. He didn’t dare deepen the kiss, pulling away so his lips hovered over England’s, waiting for his next move, expecting the bitter rejection that came with acting upon an impulse to kiss his captor after everything that’d happened. 

Agonizing silence left him feeling tearful, embarrassed, stupid, a plethora of negative emotions… 

“I-- I’m sorry…” He breathed and covered his mouth with his hands, it felt like the world had just fallen from his ass, his stomach rolling, heart lurching, blood freezing and turning to lead. 

What had he done?

The hiccupping sob left his mouth before he even registered it was there. 

"What… what are you doing?" England asked, heart hammering loudly. Spain kissed him out of nowhere, and now he was crying? "Th-that's not fair…" England said quietly, emotional whiplash and the wine, he couldn't keep up. 

Spain clutched his head and started to pace up and down the galley, descending into panic. 

“I’m sorry…” 

"Hey! Don't freak out! Come on!" England turned and swayed up to his feet grabbing Spain as he passed by on another lap. "It doesn't mean anything! Come on, just have another drink with me, don't think about it, right? Isn't that what you said?"

Spain didn’t dare meet England’s eyes, worrying his lip until it was raw. But he did stop pacing and pause for a minute. He wanted to scream, how was it still not getting through to him? 

“When we get back to the ship… lock me in the brig.” He looked down. “Treat me like the prisoner I am.”  _ Or I’ll get too comfortable… _

England was flabbergasted. He wasn't thinking that far ahead. He was still stuck on that kiss. 

"Why? So you have no choice but to leave me alone again?" England said accusatorial. He didn't know why he was getting angry. 

Spain looked into his eyes, his own glassy with unshed tears. “So I’m reminded of my place.” He said quietly, voice cracking.

"Your place… your place is under me," England said dully, pushing him backward until the back of his legs hit an overturned barrel. "Remember?" England finished darkly.

Spain felt ready to fall, the barrel taking him by surprise. He reached for England to steady himself, wanting anything but to be over a barrel again. But he couldn’t grapple for England, his arms slipping through his fingers like sand, he fell backward, his head hitting the deck with a thud, and he lay on his back, legs stuck over the barrel. 

England was taken aback by Spain falling all the way over the barrel, leaned over it to look down at him. 

"Are you brain damaged?" England asked, now thoroughly confused. He didn't know whether to punch, fuck, or humiliate Spain. Why was he like this? Constantly throwing him for a loop. 

"Well, I am now," Spain groaned, rubbing the back of his head and wincing. He groaned again, letting his head drop against the floor with a thunk, he closed his eyes, lips in a tight line. 

"What do you want from me, Spain?" England asked, reaching for more wine, maybe it would make more sense if he drank more. 

Spain looked at him,  _ really  _ looked at him. He shook himself free from his looming thoughts about England and he looked away quickly. “Mercy.” 

There was something bothering him, however, a choice of words that left him feeling cold inside.  _ He’s gonna get it back.  _ It made him wonder, his mind working overtime to process what it could mean. France hadn’t cum inside him… unless--

He was up in a flash, struggling from where he lay and standing in front of England. Suddenly he couldn’t find the words he wanted to say. He looked England up and down, then glanced away. Finding a new resolve and opting to say nothing instead, reaching for England’s hand and squeezing tightly, not a suffocating hold, but an attempt at a comforting one, his thumb grazing over the back of his hand. 

“I’m sorry for not being there...” 

England turned and looked sharply at Spain, sucking in an audible breath and holding it. He felt tears gathering in his eyes, a boiling rage to match it, and before anything could happen he looked Spain dead in the eyes, knew he must look crazed with his wide eyes, his gasping holding breath, extending an arm to push himself off of Spain, a finger still held out when he was clear as if just saying wait, or be quiet, and once he had a foot or so between them he simply croaked out a low “No,” and then turned to drown himself in the wine he still held. 

As he swallowed the heavy floral drink his throat gagged, stomach rebelling, and it was almost a relief when he felt the vomit surging up. He saw a nearby mop bucket and flung himself toward it, only halfway making it as the pure liquid sick torrented out of his mouth. A vile mixture of wine, rye, blood, traces of cum if one were to look closely… It all came back up along with the bile and the horrible hacking noises England produced. 

Spain watched the scene unfold before taking a few tentative steps forward, his hand resting on England’s back and beginning to rub up and down soothingly. He could feel his clammy skin as his fingers brushed against the nape of his neck. 

“That’s it… you’re okay, let it out, you’ll feel better afterward…” 

England felt like he was puking more than just wine, it felt like his body was trying to forcibly reject reality through his esophagus. It only took four or five heaves to empty his stomach, a few more half-hearted ones wringing out the last of the bile and blood. Then the dry heaving, which was worse. He couldn’t breathe, just drooled continuously as his body rolled in waves, a cough emerging every now and then, a gagging retch, but for the most part, his diaphragm just seized and he silently twisted around the bucket. 

Spain kept a watchful eye on him, making sure he didn’t aspire or choke. He kept rubbing his back gently, rhythmically, and upon seeing no move to remove it from England, he snaked his hand up to rest it across his forehead, cool fingertips brushing his hair from his face. 

England moaned helplessly and leaned into Spain’s cool palm, letting his neck go slack as the last of the heaves roiled their way out of him. When he felt like a wrung-out washcloth, his face leaking from every orifice, he spat a few final times for good measure and sat back and cleared his throat.

“Do you have a handkerchief?” England rasped out, his voice low and cracked. His eyes were bloodshot and glassy, nose running, mouth wet, cheeks flush a ruddy red but otherwise pale white. He covered his mouth without touching it, knowing he looked deplorable. 

Spain nodded, “I have one somewhere.” He began patting his body with his free hand, feeling for the soft fabric but being unable to find it. “Damn.” He cursed, looking at the sleeve of his shirt and tearing it so one sleeve was shorter than the other, and handed the material to England. “Not a hanky, but it’ll do.” 

England scoffed but smiled, taking the offered scrap of fabric pulled from Spain’s very body and dabbed his eyes with it, his nose, his mouth, clearing the residue from his visage. He dropped it and ran his hands down his face with a deep shuddering sigh. 

“Thank you… Spain. I’m sorry you had to see me like that,” England said lowly, face still cradled in his hands. 

Spain shrugged, “it happens to the best of us,” then he smirked and nudged England, “and the worst.” He looked around the kitchen, noticing a bowl of fruit, he went over and grabbed it under one arm, snagging a waterskin, his other arm securing around England’s waist. “Follow me.” He dragged him along, back towards the deck. 

England grabbed at Spain, stumbling along and half carried by him. 

“Wha- wait! Where are we-?” England still felt like the floor was spinning beneath his feet. 

Spain slowed upon hearing England stumble, remembering he was unsteady on his feet after all that’d happened. He took the stairs even slower, one step at a time until they were on the deck, dwarfed by a starry sky. He led England to a quiet part of the deck, helping him sit against the rail and putting the fruit bowl down. Where was it…

He looked around, eyes landing on a heap on the floor. He went over and hefted it in his arms, taking it back to England and sitting beside him, unfurling the canvas tarpaulin sheet. And letting the billowing sail repair sheet consume them both, instantly encased in warmth and hoping it warmed England too. 

England was touched. The starry cloudless sky, the deck devoid of people, a pleasant cooling breeze that wafted the muggy sickness away from him, a swaddled warmth and firm cozy body offered beneath the canvas… It was miles better than the goose down and silk pillows and unwanted advances that came with France’s bed. England snuggled up closer, taking the water skin from Spain and taking a few long appreciative gulps. It was… sweet?

“You filled it with just… water?” England asked in a daze. It never would have occurred to him. 

Spain shrugged nonchalantly, “I figured you’d need something that wasn’t fermented after puking your guts up.” Then he asked quietly, “Is that okay?”

England eyed him, smiling quietly to himself in the dark starry night. 

“Yeah, as long as I don’t wake up in the middle of the night. That’s just fine,” England said, snuggling in closer to Spain’s chest and yawning before resting his head against his shoulder and letting his hand entwine with Spain’s. Beneath that canvas, he felt safe; for some reason. Later he could blame the alcohol for his clinginess, his sentimentalism. But for now, he cuddled in closer and without thinking pressed a small warm kiss to the side of Spain’s neck before ducking his head in a rush to hide against his shoulder again.

“Uh, well, thanks for uh, helping me puke… I guess… You piece of shit…” England tagged on the insult quietly, sullenly, as if it was just something he was supposed to do, not something he really felt. 

Spain was surprised by England’s pliance, his warmth, a ghosting breath of a kiss that made him wonder if he’d just imagined it. He rested his head on England’s head, much as he had in the galley, and held up a banana, “you should try to eat this, it’ll help settle your stomach so you can sleep. And then you should sleep.” He was quick to add, hating the waver in his voice and the embarrassment staining his cheeks. 

“Open it for me,” England said, petulant but playful.

Spain rolled his eyes. Borderline affectionately, he wordlessly began to peel the banana.

As Spain held it out toward him to take it England instead just leaned forward to lick it once before he viciously bit it off and slumped back against Spain with a satisfied sigh, mouth chewing the sweet ripe fruit. 

“Thanks, love,” England said through his mouthful. And then more quietly. “I’m glad we’re sleeping out here.”

Spain hummed, feeling warm and content, “it’s better than sleeping next to France, that’s for sure. I was ready to flay him when he joined us.” Spain admitted. 

“I know, right?! What an asshole! He’s the worst…” England trailed off, not commenting on Spain’s valiant, but ultimately failed, actions. Throwing verbal darts at France was easier, something they could both easily partake in. 

Spain chuckled, “he’s a bigger asshole than you.” Spain grinned, looking down at England with a mischievous and playful expression. 

“Yeah, well, thanks… I guess…” The awkwardness was back. England just didn’t know how to take compliments, even back-handed ones, from other nations. “When we get back to my ship… You don’t have to go to the brig. Andorra can come out too. It was just too many of you free at once I was worried about…” England said.

Spain lifted his head, looking down at his hands in his lap, whispering, “please don’t…” He paused for a few moments before his fingers started to pick at his nails, he hissed as one nail nicked his skin as he pulled, watching a small amount of blood pool at the tip of his finger and he brought it to his mouth. 

England glanced at him worrying his nails and scoffed. 

“I’m not afraid of you, Spain. I’ve seen what you do when I’m defenseless and I can’t say I hate it. Remember wearing my hat and riding me on the open ocean? I didn’t even tell you to do that…” England chuckled warmly and sipped at the waterskin, vaguely wished it was cut with rum. 

Spain sighed, keeping his eyes trained ahead of him, “you really don’t understand…” He felt tears sting his eyes and he craned his head back to rest on the rail, looking up at the waxing moon. 

_ “I’m  _ afraid of  _ me.”  _ He clarified, “I’m growing too comfortable, too at ease… too close.” 

England quirked an eyebrow at him, smiling sadly. 

“This is about your men, isn’t it? Don’t worry… I executed them because they were mutineers against you. This is why I keep telling you, playing at being friends with mortals is a fool’s game. You can’t get close when you treat them as their rank demands. Keeps everyone safe…” England mumbled, curling in against Spain and actually hitching a leg up over his lap as he nuzzled closer.

“I know why you killed my men, and yes, you keep telling me,” Spain’s tone was annoyed, “let me save you your next breath, I’m the biggest fool to play the fool’s game, aren’t I?” He sighed, “I’m sorry, I’ve never been good at talking…” He frowned at his own ineptitude. “Especially about my feelings… I guess what I’m trying to say is… I’m growing too comfortable around  _ you _ , you’ve already made your position clear, articulated your plan to ransom me… You’ve killed me, you’ve raped me, you’ve done unspeakable things, yet I find myself feeling comfortable around you, against my better judgment. I’m waiting for the moment I know everything will end, I’m waiting to be hurt, but that still doesn’t change the fact I--” Spain stopped himself. “This familiarity. It’s tearing me apart. I’d rather know my place and be kept there than play a fool’s game again… get hurt again…”

England pulled back and sat up to look at Spain. 

“I- I thought you knew I didn’t mean it… I mean, not all of it, not all the time, but… But this is what we are, I….” England was going to say ‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ but realized that wasn’t exactly true. He had wanted to hurt Spain in the past, and he’d done so. Would do so again. Just because he felt safe and warm with him at that moment didn’t mean they wouldn’t be tearing each other apart the next night. 

Several thoughts and words hung in his mouth at once - ‘I’m sorry’, ‘it doesn’t have to be that way’, ‘run away with me and you’ll never be hurt again’, but with each line, he thought of he knew it would be a lie, and so instead he frowned and sighed and leaned back in with an annoyed huff. 

“Don’t ruin a good moment by bringing up stuff we can’t change. We do terrible things to each other but we still have to interact, we still have to play nice. Can’t you at the very least try to enjoy it when playing nice actually _ feels nice _ ?” England felt an insecure part of him encourage him to snake a hand beneath Spain’s pants and give him something even nicer, but it wasn’t the right time. They were both exhausted, running on fumes and third winds. France and the specter of rape between them still hung fresh and it wouldn’t be right to try and start now. Instead, England wrapped his arms around Spain and wedged himself even closer. 

“Just relax. Think about it tomorrow,” England whispered, letting his eyes slide closed. 

No. Spain wasn’t finished, something inside him snapped at the way England tried to brush off the situation. “I’m enjoying it too much.” He hissed darkly. “Being around you feels like I’m flying too close to the sun, I’m playing with an inferno and I’m going to fall and get burned.” Then he threw all caution to the wind, “I’m already falling, I’m already burning… The lines are blurring and I’m foolishly letting them!”

“Well, what do you want me to do about your stupid feelings? Just turn them off like a normal nation. Take what you like, leave behind the shit… That’s what I’ve always done, how did you even make it this long if you so easily -” he was about to say fall in love, but that was far too presumptuous, “So easily fall in line with your captor? If you want to hate me, then fucking hate me! Don’t make it my problem just because you’re too weak to figure out your own feelings,” England said spitefully, regretting it even as the words left his mouth. Spain was certain to leave him now. But what else could he say? He liked being close to Spain but he wasn’t going to fall apart because of it like Spain seemed to be doing. It didn’t make any sense… Why couldn’t he just cuddle without overthinking it?

Spain scowled, "you're as thick as pig shit, you know that?" He stood, passing England a glance. “What did you say? Leave my shit behind?” 

Spain didn’t wait for an answer, instead, he made his way to the gangway, disembarking from the ship and starting to walk away, further along the sea wall, kicking his feet as he went. He’d return in the morning, before France would wake, with his answer. 

Spain found himself wandering aimlessly until his eyes landed on England’s ship. Making a beeline for the hold, for his treasure which all seemed so worthless in the grand scheme of things. He saw Alfanje, hilt, and blade in pristine condition, cleaned and buffed into glorious splendor, orange gems winking at him as he picked it out the pile and started to rummage through the hoard of riches, for its sheath. 

He found it moments later, resheathing the blade and resting it against the wall. Next, he found his hat, nowhere near as grand as England’s but no less remarkable, he changed his shirt, putting his own cravat into position and finding his belt, wrapping it around his waist. He readied himself and polished himself to his former glory, slipping into a spare captain’s jacket, black like the darkest nights, embroidered and gussied up with gold swirls and expensive-looking epaulets on his shoulders. The ribbon on Alfanje’s sheath wrapped around his belt loop, securing it tightly with a neat bow. 

He was ready. 

\----

England sat under the heavy canvas sail where he’d been left, watched with growing anger as Spain stormed off. He tried to make sense of what he’d been saying but it was a math equation he didn’t have the formula for. He didn’t even know where to start. His good mood which had slowly been kindled after Spain took care of him was instantly doused again when he abruptly left. He curled up his knees under that fabric, bringing the rough material to his face and clutching at himself. 

“Stupid, lying Spain… Of course, he wasn’t going to stay with me,” England muttered to himself, picking at a stray thread and pulling it out of the canvas, watching the single string unravel and rumple an entire section of cloth. He had planned to go to sleep right there, curled against Spain, feeding each other fruit and insults about France, he’d been looking forward to it when it was clear that’s where the evening was headed. But alone on the deck, it suddenly seemed so very stupid. Why giggle like schoolboys under the covers when there was yet more alcohol to spoil and filter through his kidneys? 

England was exhausted, injured, still in pain whenever he moved and his body screamed for rest. But the internal torture was quickly growing worse, the voices in his head too loud telling him how he would always be alone, that Spain was right - he couldn’t even handle a single prisoner properly, that it was his fault for being too small and weak to stop France, to stop Spain, let himself be used… 

Kicking the canvas furiously England pulled himself back to his feet and kicked the fruit bowl, sending the remaining fruits tumbling across the deck, stamping at an apple skidding by and it crushed satisfyingly under his boot. He meandered back down the hold to the galley, ready to drown himself in the bottom of a wine casket. 

\----

The pre-dawn twilight painted the sky with pastel colors, the horizon to the East was fiery orange, there were still a few bright stars in the cold cloudless sky and Spain looked up as he walked along the stone sea wall. Spain’s boots clacked along the gangway, up the boardwalk onto the ship, and he looked around. The canvas was abandoned, fruit strewn across the deck, an apple had been turned to mush and he heaved a sigh. That meant England would probably be passed out and useless. 

He walked across the deck, looking around for any signs of life but finding none, so he went lower, descending the stairs with his head held high, certain he’d find England in the galley. 

He’d been right, seeing him in a heap beside a wine barrel. He only hoped that it wasn’t a contaminated one England had been drinking from. 

“Oi.” He kicked his foot, receiving no response. “Bastardo.” He dropped the sword in his hand onto England’s lap, hoping the weight of the object would wake him. 

England jerked and grabbed clumsily at the sheath as he startled awake.

“Wh-wha - What’sgoin’... Spain?” England scrunched his eyes as he looked up at Spain fully dressed and gleaming in his captain’s regalia even below deck he seemed to shine. He groaned and lowered his head, sinking back into his stupor.

“Good, you got your shit, now you can get the fuck out,” England grumbled, his head was pounding and on top of that the painful twisting in his chest was back. Seeing Spain fully dressed and ready to go just made it worse. He knew he was still drunk but he just wanted more, wanted to drink until he couldn’t feel his face, let alone these strange stressful emotions. “Why did you even come back anyway?” England asked from his warm spot on the floor.

Spain hummed, “I made a promise.” He glared at England, “but I’m still pissed about last night, so I challenge you to a duel. A sword fight. Nothing at stake. Just exchanging blows. Winner gets one request.” 

England frowned and curled into himself tighter. 

“No,” he said simply, his voice low and sullen. “Fuck you.”

Spain looked at him, feeling irate. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to! Because you want to so I don’t! Get away from me, asshole…” England shouted, uncurling to sit up and glare at Spain. The sheathed sword still in his lap. 

“Ah…” Spain acknowledged, “I see, you’re afraid of losing and having to do what I ask of you.” 

England felt his eye twitching. He scrambled up to his feet, going lightheaded and nearly passing out again if not for his grip on the barrel pulling himself up. He gripped the sword and unsheathed it holding the naked blade out in the air pointing directly at Spain’s chest. 

“You’re really an idiot, aren’t you? Instead of sneaking away when you had the opportunity you came back to fight me. And don’t worry, I was listening last night. When I beat you  _ again _ it’ll just be the brig and barrels for you the rest of the time, just like you want, right?” England snarled, chest heaving with the words, eyes burning with green fire. 

Spain lived for the expression on England’s face, his own eyes lighting up with interest and he smiled. 

“Come. We’ll duel on the deck in the warmth of the first rays of sunlight.” He turned, heading back up to the deck, unable to fight back his grin of triumph. Once at the top of the stairs he turned again to face England, spreading his arms out wide and taking a few confident steps backward. 

England gave Spain a dirty look, not appreciating the theatrics. He knew he wasn’t in shape for a duel but he truly didn’t care. Spain could run him through with a sword and he still probably wouldn’t feel it, he was so drunk. But he couldn’t resist a challenge, couldn’t back down from a fight between nations even if it was likely he’d lose. England would never say it though, would never acknowledge that Spain coming back to fight him specifically was somewhat touching. In a violent fucked up sense. But this was how they communicated. This was their dance of domination and dueling swords. England felt his scowl morph into a twisted blood-thirsty grin. The morning light streaming in from the east hurt his eyes but he quickly adjusted, leaned, and breathed deeply into the light caressing winds. It was late enough for light, early enough that few sailors were up yet. The perfect time for an open-air duel on a ship deck. 

England swung his sword back and forth a couple of times to test the weight, the feel of it in his hands, and grinned toothily at Spain. 

“You sure you want to fight me? I don’t need two one-armed captives you know…” England poked at him verbally, getting more into it the longer he was awake. 

“Take my left arm,” Spain smirked, “that way I can still jerk you off with my right.” He goaded, drawing Alfanje from its sheath and holding the blade towards England. 

“You’re gonna do more than just jerk me off, slut!” England said, leaping forward to slash at Spain on the last word, not waiting for a count down or the proper etiquette. If Spain wanted a fight, he was going to get one. 

Spain sidestepped the attack with relative ease, England’s sword clashing with his own and being deflected from its course. He refocused, lifting his head up, shoulders drawing back, and his dominant foot sliding forward on the deck, taking up an offensive pose before waiting for England to turn to face him. 

England spun around from the deflection and circled around, not stopping his momentum, and brought his arm down again, clashing against Spain’s blade which was already there, prepared to block yet again, this time prepared for the hit and shoving back against him as he did it, which overbalanced England and he had to stumble back to keep his footing. 

Spain lunged forward, bringing Alfanje over his head and bringing it down at England, the latter weakly parrying the attack. Adrenaline sang its song in his veins, lighting him up, oh how it felt to feel alive again… 

He brought the sword back before he lunged a second time, slashing across his blade. 

England was able to block but felt dizzy, his arms heavy and slow and his feet uncoordinated. When Spain leaped at him again, more force and precision in the blow, England felt himself drop to one knee, holding the back of his blade with both hands, keeping Spain’s sword away from him but kneeling in order to do so. His arms were shaking from exertion, the ground seemed to buck and swell under him as if they were on a rolling highwave, rather than a calm docked harbor. Fuck, he really shouldn’t have agreed to this when he was so drunk. 

England glared at Spain across their tensed blades and without any real thought or strategy behind it except pure bullheadedness, he spat directly in his face, shoving up with his blade as he did it. 

Spain grimaced, swiping at the spittle on his face with the hand that wasn’t engaged with England’s sword, he felt the shift in the blades, his Alfanje sliding down and disappearing off the precipice of England’s and he staggered to his knees, finding his balance with his free hand and looking over his shoulder at England who loomed over him with a manic gaze. He felt panic for a moment, only briefly, being on the receiving end of those eyes. But then he swiped up with Alfanje, cutting a horizontal line across England’s chest, deep enough to draw blood but not to be fatal. 

England staggered back when he felt the keen burning steel slice across his front. His sweat-stained shirt was split open, a deep red line across his chest already spilling over. It hurt, he definitely felt it, but it just made England feel more combative and he held his sword parallel to the ground and surged forward with the tip, trying to impale Spain before he bled out. 

Spain’s eyes widened and with lightning reflexes he grabbed Alfanje’s sheath from his waist, receiving the sword into the sheath and yanking it from England’s grip. He moved to stand, climbing to his feet with panting breaths. 

“You lost.” 

“I haven’t lost shit! You said a fight, not a sword fight!” England shouted, launching himself at Spain despite having no weapons himself. His fists balled up and swinging wildly like a windmill, using drunken logic to bulldoze his way through. 

Spain caught his fists, but not before taking a hit to his forearm. 

“Sit your ass down!” He shouted, pushing England back so he lost his balance, guiding him down to the floor by his hands. Then he sunk to his knees beside him. He’d realized during the fight, that England was hurting and angry, just like he was… and where the fighting had eased his own anger, it’d only served to rile England up more. 

“I’m sorry,” he said solemnly, reaching into his pocket to remove a wad of bandages, prepared for whoever lost.

“Fuck you! Fuck your shitty sword, fuck your dead crew, fuck your slutty ass over a barrel, piece of shit! I hate you!” England couldn’t stop, felt himself drawn down to the deck, hitting his knees, Spain holding him back, cradling him in the same motion, containing and soothing him with the same pressure. England, with a detached sense of horror, realized his eyes were brimming with unexpected tears. Fuck. Where had those come from? He leaned forward into the man he’d just been cursing, better to hide than let him see his tears. England couldn’t even feel the blood, his wounds were mere figments compared to the internal roiling. 

Spain could take the swearing, the insults, but the last sentence made him smile ruefully. “I know.” He eased England’s fingers from his clothes, settling him on the deck as he took England’s shirt off for better access to the wound, he wrapped it without a word as England’s blond head bowed against him. 

“Why? Why did you come back?” England asked quietly, a small miserable voice unable to understand the tenderness, the bandages, the attention after abandonment. 

“I told you, I made a promise,” Spain repeated, tightening the bandages enough to stem the bleeding. “I said I wasn’t going to leave you, and last night I had no intention of never coming back… I just needed to clear my head…. Make my bed and lie in it,” he said cryptically. 

England was quiet as he let Spain hold him, bandage him, and sniffed and winced as he was bound up. Without looking up, his fat bottom lip still protruding, England mumbled like a cranky child. 

"You could have told me you were coming back… asshole," England muttered. 

Spain smiled sadly, "I know… I'm sorry… but I'm here to stay now." He tied the bandage off, tucking the loose end inside the tight wrap of fabric around his chest. 

England blinked rapidly, swallowed down the tears, sniffed, and scrubbed his eyes with the back of his sleeve. 

"Where'd you go anyway? Just to get some better threads? We could have just raided France's shit," England mumbled, still groggy from holding back crying, from waking up drunk, the bleeding from his wounds, fighting Spain first thing in the morning…

"Back to your shitty ship to get  _ my  _ threads," Spain smiled, wrapping an arm around England's shoulders. "I also may have walked 'round wrecking things until I realized something." 

England's head snapped up, shoving at Spain. 

"You better not have broken anything important! I'll slice your ass up if you did anything reckless…" England heard himself saying though he wasn't really mad. Didn't really care what Spain had destroyed, just that he came back after he did. 

Spain half cackled and half giggled, "oh yeah, I broke a whole bunch of important stuff." His tone turned semi-serious. "I meant what I said about you being as thick as pig shit if you seriously haven't noticed before." 

"Haven't noticed what?" England asked, stiffening defensively. 

"You really don't know?" Spain answered, "all that alcohol must be killing your brain." He smirked playfully. "Should I show you?" 

England had no idea what he was talking about and began shooting backward, shuffling out of Spain's arms. 

"I'll show you how sharp I am when I slice you up, you fucking toad…" England said, reaching for whatever basic insult he happened to land on. 

Spain laughed softly, following England and reaching up and holding his cheek in his hand, thumb grazing over his skin. "I'll show you." A soft smile played on his lips, his thumb stopping its basic movement and holding one side of his face just that little bit harder. "Hate me." He whispered, bringing their lips together in another kiss; their third. The third instigated by him. He pulled away with a sad smile, "go on, hate me. I do." He said, not breaking their eye contact. "For some wild and crazy reason, this is the bed I choose to make and lie in." 

“Hate you…?” England repeated, feeling a bit dazed from the kiss, appreciative that he was too sloshed to care more about it. “But, Spain… I thought that was a given,” he said, leaning forward to nuzzle Spain’s forehead. “Of course I hate you. Why else would I hang out with you…” England trailed off, more confused than when they started. 

Spain smiled sadly… of course… Of. Fucking. Course. It was like just missing out on the prevailing winds to take them home from open water.

“Besides hating you, which I already do, what else do you want? Come on… You keep changing the rules, Spain,” England said, leaning his face in to bite at his neck, a safer target than his lips. 

Spain decided it was all or nothing at that moment, frowning, he shifted to whisper in England's ear, partially to hide his face from any scrutiny he was going to face. 

"... love me." 

England pulled back, going cold as he did so. He- he didn’t know what those words meant, only that it was something that gave mortals hope, got them killed. He’d heard men say that to him - declare their love for him time after time, right before charging to their deaths. He’d never heard it from another nation, literally didn’t know what it meant. 

“What… What does that mean?” England asked, not even feeling dumb for it because it was such an unusual request. 

Spain smiled sadly, trying to pick his words carefully, "it means… to--" he looked down, suddenly losing all confidence, it hadn't been the answer he'd been expecting, although, arguably, it was better "--it means that we do what we do because it feels good and like the right thing to do… not the dying and killing thing, the other stuff… I want you to be more than an enemy, more than a friend, for the blurred lines to have clarity again and to be on the other side of it." 

England heard what Spain said, but wasn’t sure he understood it. 

“So… we just do what we want?” England asked, “What if what I want… is to kill? I don’t think a clear line is a privilege afforded to us, Spain. More than an enemy, more than a friend? What does that even mean?” England asked, he wasn’t sure what Spain was trying to get at, couldn’t relax not knowing his end goal.

Spain sighed, "it means… I like you. A lot. And I want more than what we have now. Selfishly so… I feel like…" he held his head in his hands, unsure of what he even wanted to say. "I don't know! I just… enjoy what we have and want more… this is why I said to lock me in the brig and make me know my place...I'm your captive, first and foremost. I shouldn't feel this way." 

“Shouldn’t feel this way? Well, I’d say so! But I’m not gonna lock you up for it, not until we figure out what’s going on with France, that woman, and Andorra. I’ve looked at the maps. Let me guess, your first mate is fluent in French as well as Spanish, isn’t he?” England asked, trying to find any angle to the situation that made more sense than what Spain was spouting. 

Spain looked away, feeling the rejection lodge in his throat. "I… don't know. Like I said, I didn't know he was a nation, that he even came from Andorra, I thought he grew up in Carche and Murcia, the South East of Spain." He stood, pacing on the deck. "I thought I knew him well… but clearly I didn't…" 

“Clearly…” England said “But obviously not,” he continued. 

Spain sighed, feeling waves upon waves of strain, stress, pains in his chest, and a restless heart beating away, he continued to stalk up and down the deck, hiding under his trifold hat. His throat felt tight and he felt sick to his stomach, negative emotions creating even more negative physical reactions. He didn't dare look at England as he walked. Feeling trapped by his own words, shackled by the word  _ promise _ , hanged from the crossbeam by the words  _ love me… _ and not to mention trying to process all the new information about his first, and only, crew member... it was all too much. He'd lost everything. 

"I… I'm going to…" he pointed to the galley, looking at his boots, as he started to move towards the galley. 

“Hey. You going down to go drink about the shit you can’t think about?” England asked, his mouth twitching upward. 

"Something like that, I guess." 

“I’m coming too then. Stop trying to admit shit to me, just get drunk like the rest of us. Dumbass,” England concluded, feeling better having reestablished their dynamic. No more stupid confessions.

Spain pursed his lips. “No.” 

“No? Come on… I thought you just said you were going down to get drunk?” England asked, annoyed. 

Spain scowled, “I never said that,  _ you _ did. Besides, do you think it’s wise to get drunk around someone who likes you? Could take advantage of you.” His tone turned dark. “Because I will.” 

England stopped and looked at Spain. Really looked at him. 

“Do you… Do you want me? I mean… Like really want me?” he asked, not sure of the question. Felt stupid even asking it. 

Spain met his gaze, “in every sense of the word.” 

England wasn’t expecting that response. He was expecting gagging or laughter or taunting. But complete agreement and alignment? 

“You’re lying…” England started, breathlessly, not sure what to do, what to say. 

“Am I?” He started to step closer, expression serious. 

England stepped back, suddenly afraid of Spain for the first time.

“I’m not some whore for you to use… If you allied with France to take advantage of me, you’ve got a world of hurt in front of you. You’re gonna have to cut my limbs off to make me as good a bitch as you,” England said in a low growl. Despite his words, he was looking for other exits, other escape routes, extra weapons, and things to use for leverage. Spain wasn’t going to capture him like some pawn to be used, he’d jump overboard and start over before letting France, or Spain, win.

Spain looked at him, taking in his posture and body language. He was afraid. 

“As if I’d side with  _ France _ , give me some credit. Besides, I don’t like sharing… And I know,” he took a step closer, “when I say I want you, I mean in  _ every  _ sense of the word.” He was now only a few feet away from England, “but that also means  _ more  _ than just sex.” 

England felt like he might cave in, his chest tight, his heart hammering, everything wound up to the breaking point. It was terror. Unlike anything he’d experience outside of a killing zone in an armed skirmish, pure fear as he had no experience to draw from. Spain might as well have said he was invading London for how personal it felt. England felt his breath racing, his heart pounding, mouth drier than the Sahara. 

“What? What more… What more could you possibly want?” England asked in a tremulous voice. 

Spain looked away, "if you don't know, then you're clearly not ready for it…" 

England felt himself panting and adrenaline spiking, tension surging through his limbs, despite the fact that they hadn’t even moved. He felt like he was being snubbed - like he was being passed over. Not good enough. But for what he had no idea. But the bottled energy had to go somewhere. England balled up his fists, let the wino logic take over as he swang a haymaker at Spain’s jaw.

Spain staggered back as England's fist collided with his face, clutching his jaw. 

Fuuuck…

"Fine, you drunkard, you really want to know?" Spain growled, "I want more than sex with you, that means we do stuff together, like when we contaminated France's wine. How much fun was that? I haven't laughed like that in only God knows when! I want to do things like that, together. With you and nobody else. And the thought of you doing it with someone else… fills me with rage and jealousy." 

Spain was breathing heavily now, hand still attached to his face, curved around his jaw so that it didn't touch the skin but protected it. 

England didn’t trust the words, didn’t believe them, his mind grasping desperately for anything to explain what Spain’s true motives were. 

“You don’t want to see me with anyone else, you want to control me,” England said doubtfully, uncertain of it himself, “Because why else would you say that? After everything I’ve done to you, what I’m going to keep doing to you… I’m not some housecat you can come pet and then ignore the rest of the time. I’m not some dog who will sit obediently at your side and lick your boots,” England said with a frown, backing up again after punching Spain.

“If I wanted to control you, I’d do what France does and get you to submit that way,” Spain hissed, growing more and more frustrated at the situation. “What I want is  _ so  _ different, so much more than the pain and suffering we inflict on each other! Have you never wanted something like that with someone who won’t fucking die on you?”

Spain paused, unsure of what to say next, he felt as if he was treading water, losing ground, fighting a lost battle. He bit his lip, ducking his head so his hat hid his eyes, stinging with unshed tears. “Believe what you want, but that won’t change how I feel. You keep saying we’re not like humans; that we’re different, but we’re still vulnerable, we have emotions, both good and bad, and we have a beating heart. That makes us more human than you think. And I’m proud to embrace that fact, to feel human even when I’ll outlive them by who knows how long,” Spain said passionately.

Hearing the words caused several internal tectonic shifts within England. The fact that Spain knew what France had done, somehow, the fact that he was still pursuing him like he was some human maiden, the fact he expected England to participate and reciprocate. The thoughts all ground and shuddered against one another creating shockwaves through his body, through his mind. 

“Living longer just gives us more time to disappoint each other, I’m afraid,” England heard himself saying, a sad smile on his lips. What Spain said sounded so nice, too good to be true for someone like him. “I can’t pretend to be something I’m not… but maybe we can still help each other out,” England said slowly, looking Spain up and down. “Instead of this human shit, form an alliance with me. Not as nations, not as captains, just an allegiance between us as individuals,” England said, relieved to have found a way to frame this nonsense in a way that made sense. 

Spain blinked owlishly for a moment, “wait, what…? I…” Spain couldn’t even begin to formulate a response, he’d never expected  _ that _ from England, that he’d meet him halfway… “Does this mean arduous negotiations?” He had to ask, to break the silence, saying it in a lighthearted manner, of course, it meant negotiations… nobody went into an alliance without mutual agreement. 

“Hopefully more amorous than arduous… I’m not sitting around a desk and drafting up contracts, or any of that boring shit. But if you really want to do this, yeah, what are your demands?” England said leaning back against the rail and crossing his arms until he realized how much it bunched his wound up in pain and let them drop again. 

"I only have one: humor me."

England scowled darkly. 

“That’s pretty open-ended, Spain…” he said. 

Spain looked at him with a dead stare, "fine, humor me when I want to do human-like things with you. I won't do anything malicious, I promise." 

England’s brows furrowed even deeper, if possible. God, why was this so hard? 

“Fine. I’ll humor you. But that doesn’t mean I’m just going to go along with every little annoying thing you happen to think of. Another thing, you don’t leave me alone with France, ever. Don’t do any of that sappy shit around other nations. Definitely not around my crew either. That includes any pet names, I’m England to you whenever anyone else is around and you are to act according to your station. When we’re in public, you’re beneath me. You’re not to breathe a word of this arrangement to anyone. We only speak English when we’re together. You don’t have to stay in the brig, but my quarters are  _ my _ quarters - I’m not sharing my room or my bed unless I specifically invite you in. When I want something, you do it without questioning me. Understand?” England said snippily. 

“So needy~” Spain teased before clearing his throat, “I understand, England.” He nodded. 

“Oh, and of course, if I think of anything else later I can always tack on more. There,  _ that’s  _ how you’re supposed to negotiate. Dumbass,” though England said the insult with a smile. He suddenly found himself feeling… excited? 

England looked Spain up and down again, seeing him as more than a rival for the first time. His stomach must finally have healed enough because he could feel the beginnings of fluttering there, his face heating up.

"So… what now?" England asked, nervous, flighty, fixated on Spain's lips. He didn't know what he was supposed to feel, what they were supposed to do now. 

“What do you want to do?” Spain asked, his heart hammering in his chest. “I mean, with this alliance, we have that privilege, within reason, of course.” 

"I - I don't know…! This was your idea!" England blustered, his face feeling red hot now, steam might have risen from his head. Maybe morning drinking wasn't such a bad idea after all. He remembered what Spain had said, figured that was the safest option. "Wanna go destroy more of France's shit? Crack open another barrel of wine?"

Spain smirked, “I was thinking something similar.” He began walking to the galley, stopping to wait for England after a few steps. “Wanna make him a God awful breakfast with spoiled fish and toxic waste-filled wine? Sit there and watch him consume it?”

England cackled evilly and followed after Spain, clapping a hand on his shoulder and smiling warmly at him. 

"That's the first romantic thing you've said so far," England mused. 

Spain smirked, “And what if I said you can fuck me in the crow’s nest?” 

England stopped short, his grin turning more lustful, hand resting on Spain began to rub lightly, thumb grazing and massaging the meat of his shoulder. 

"Now you're speaking my language…" England smirked, changing course toward the mainmast.

“I thought so~” Spain grinned, letting himself be guided by England. 

When they got to the rigging around the mast England gave a mocking half-bow, still smirking as he did it. 

"Ladies first," he said motioning to the mast. 

Spain quirked a brow playfully, “so you can look at my ass? Alright~” He started hauling himself up the rigging, eyes focused on the crow’s nest above them.

“That’s the idea, love,” England said, though now the mocking term of endearment didn’t feel like such a joke anymore. England’s blush got worse, glad that Spain was already climbing up and wouldn’t see it. He waited to give him space and then started climbing up after him. The residual drunkenness seemed to be blown away in the strong winds, the fresh nip of air as he climbed higher and higher. It felt good to use his muscles, he hadn’t gone up to the crow’s nest in such a long time and with the sun rising he couldn’t have thought of a more gorgeous backdrop. 

Spain reached the crow’s nest and looked out over the bay, at the sun peeking over the horizon at them. The sea breeze took the air from his lungs and left him breathless, in that moment he forgot he actually  _ needed _ to breathe. He leaned on the side of the crow’s nest, closing his eyes and letting the wind play with his hair, basking in the sunlight with a gentle, carefree smile on his face.

He’d missed this… 

“Oi, bunch up. I’m coming over,” England strained and heaved himself over the side, finally joining Spain up top. He stood and wrapped an arm around Spain’s waist, holding him against his side while little eddies of vertigo swirled and settled in his stomach. Staring out over the water it felt like it was just the two of them on the whole island, a secluded view only for them. England sighed deeply, happy in that moment, and leaned in to nuzzle Spain’s neck. 

“Is this what you wanted then?” England asked quietly.

Spain turned to look at him, still smiling only it was a mischievous smile. “Depends what you do next, you could throw me off and that’s not what I imagined at all.” He turned to face him, resting his arms on his shoulders, hands teasing the hair at the nape of England’s neck.

“Nah, it’d be a waste. There’s so many better ways to make you fall,” England nipped at Spain’s neck, hand running up and down his side, the black velvet smooth under his fingers. “You’re wearing too much, Spain,” England murmured, fingers catching in the material and twisting it. 

He moved in closer until their chests were pressed together, his arms around England’s neck and whispered into the scant space between them, “what if I want you to fuck me with my full captain’s regalia on?”

England leaned his head in so their foreheads were touching.

“I’d say that’s pretty fucking hot,” England murmured, letting his hands snake up and skate over Spain’s firm chest, slipping beneath the jacket to feel his pecs, his sides, sinking down until his thumbs hooked into the top of his trousers. He jerked him closer, made their crotches touch together, and was pleased to find they were both already hard. 

A small gasp escaped Spain’s lips, a tremble caused by England’s touch, and the cool sea breeze rippled through his body. He wound his hands into England’s hair, keeping his forehead against his and he looked into his eyes. “Good, because I want you to fuck me in my captain’s regalia.”

England’s mouth cracked open to pant into the small enclosed space between their faces. The words sent a shiver of excitement through him. 

“Fuuuck…” England bit at his lip and stepped forward, moving Spain back until his ass hit the mast rising up through the center of the crow’s nest. Once he had him against something solid England dove in, biting his neck, laving his tongue over him, one hand rubbing at the front of Spain’s pants, the other slipping beneath and reaching behind to push against his hole with gentle pressure. His jacket fluttered around them, catching the wind like a flag, and England chuckled as he nibbled at Spain’s collarbone, nosing the coat out of his way to do so. 

“Like this?” England asked breathily.

Spain moaned at the sudden assault on his senses, nodding as he craned his neck to give England better access, his hips stuttering into both stimulations England was providing.

“Fuck, yes,” he rasped. 

England pulled his hands out of Spain’s pants in order to ruck his shirt up, sink down his front licking and biting and sucking a trail of marks as he went. He grabbed the hem of Spain’s pants and yanked it down, just enough to free his dick to spring out and tap against his cheek. He licked it, just the very tip, and let his other hand squeeze back around and press more decisively against Spain’s entrance, sinking one finger in up to the second knuckle. 

Spain groaned, fingers tugging lightly on England’s hair as he rolled his hips, unsure where his hips should move first. His legs trembled and he whined low in his throat in frustration, a string of curses passing his lips. “I didn’t take you as a tease…” he said breathily. 

England looked up with heavy-lidded eyes. 

“I have many talents, Spain,” England murmured, sucking the glans into his mouth and holding it there, tongue swirling and circling the tip, sliding the skin back over the head. He moved his single finger in and out of Spain’s ass, slowly, matching the pace of his tongue’s small circuit and never giving more. Neither area did he press too hard, move too fast, just enough stimulation to drive Spain wild without letting him get anywhere with it. 

Spain moaned, face burning and features flushed, he closed his eyes and couldn’t help but hunch over England’s form, fingertips gripping his hair tighter. 

“I-- I’m beginning to see that…” He panted, he rolled his hips with a little more purpose, apprehensive at first in case it wasn’t received well, but soon he stopped overthinking, started enjoying, his legs feeling weak and muscles relaxing and simultaneously tensing with pleasure. 

When Spain twitched his hips forward England moved his head back with the movement, not letting him go any deeper. He sucked hard, sliding his tongue back and forth across the frenulum, the shallow sensitive spot just below the head while the finger in Spain's ass continued to dip in and out in a slow, steady torturous pace. 

Spain opened his mouth, but no sounds came out. A silent moan. He scrunched his eyes shut, focusing on the pleasurable drag of England’s finger inside him, the sensation of his mouth on his cock, he was going to go insane if he didn’t get  _ more _ . His hands flew to the rail, holding it tightly as his legs threatened to give out under him. 

“C-- Cabron!” 

England came off his dick with an audible pop, licking his lips as he did so. 

"What was that, Spain?" England teased, finger still sliding in and out as he spoke.

Spain flushed brighter under the scrutiny, biting his lip and worrying it between his teeth, had he fucked up by speaking Spanish? 

“B-- Bastard…” he hissed, using the moment to recover his composure, albeit just a little bit. The finger inside him was causing more pleasure, and he gasped brokenly as England pressed his finger in again, a heaving breath escaping him as he pressed his hips back into the touch. 

"So needy, pushing your hips on me like that… Does the captain want more up his ass?" England asked, mocking him, crooking his finger as he did it.

Spain jerked, legs wobbling, and he nodded his head, “yes…” His face felt like it was on fire, the heat spreading down his neck, if he were naked he’d surely be blushing down to his collarbones. 

"Beg for more,  _ captain _ ," England said slyly.

Spain moaned, deciding to play the game. He wasn’t going to beg so easily, he was going to push England to his limits. “Make me~” He mirrored his earlier statement with a lustful lilt to his voice. 

England quirked a single eyebrow, green eyes sparkling with the challenge. 

"If you wish," he pulled his finger out, rubbing the wet pad across his taint instead, smearing and pressing against the soft spot in the middle of everything, his palm dragging over Spain's balls as he moved his hand. He didn't touch his dick again, just blew gently against the hard head of it, watching Spain squirm. 

Spain threw his head back, his hat falling loose and toppling down onto the deck below, moaning to the morning sky as England teased him, made him a prisoner all over again only to something far better this time. 

England saw his hat fall, got some satisfaction from undressing him like that using pure passion, and pressed up hard against his perineum, two fingers sinking into the spongy flesh and swishing back and forth stroking his nerves. He stopped blowing on Spain's dick, leaning past it to bite the tender skin where his thigh met his torso, turning to lick and nibble and worry his lips around the base of his cock but never giving him the proper suction or grip that he needed. 

Spain wailed needily, shuddering against him, “fuck… fuck… England, please…”

England's lips curled in a knowing grin. 

"See? Was that so hard?" And with that England rewarded him by pursing his lips and sucking his dick all the way to the base, tilting his head so Spain's cock squeezed down his throat. At the same time, he pressed two fingers into his ass, curling so they dragged right over his prostate, a firmer harder rhythm. He wrapped his free arm around Spain's legs, holding him up against the mast as he sucked the precum out of him and threatened to buckle. 

Spain cried out, seeing stars for a moment as he was held up against the mast, his world spinning in dramatic fashion as England left him feeling boneless without even cumming yet, he moaned and thrashed helplessly against the pleasure. 

"Yes… Ah, yes…" he muttered drunkenly, canting his hips without any rhythm. 

England bobbed his head against Spain's crotch, squeezing another finger inside his backside, flexing them so his ass opened up. He wished he'd had the forethought to bring the grease. He pulled off his dick and out of his ass, grabbing his hips and twisting him around on the spot so his feet shuffled awkwardly and Spain had to catch himself against the mast. He pushed the jacket aside and spread open his cheeks, nosing right up to his hole, and licked at it a few times before sliding his tongue inside.

By now Spain was leaning heavily on the mast, fingertips grappling uselessly at the wood as England spread him open, whimpering and whining as he arched his back and pressed against England’s tongue. 

England smirked hearing how Spain was coming apart and reached around to grab his dick, pump him along in time with his tongue. Sliding in and out, wetting and stretching him open until the muscle was warm, pliable, twitching against his mouth. He took his time, slowing down in the front, tongue flicking faster in the back, bringing his free hand up to roll his balls. He was going to be thorough since they didn't have any other lubrication, humming as he pressed his tongue back in. 

Spain’s legs shuddered and he had to stand pigeon-toed to keep himself standing, “I-- I didn't really think this through…” He whined, closing his eyes and succumbing to the pleasure coursing through his veins, he could feel the fire in his belly, toes curling and uncurling in his boots, but there just wasn’t enough stimulation to push him over the edge, a warm tear rolled down his windburned cheek, “please… fuck me...” 

Chuckling right into him, England just tongued him more deeply, flexing and pushing against the ring of muscle. He leaned back just enough to spit on the wet hole before plunging back in, sneaking a finger in next to his tongue. His hand on Spain's dick just held him still, gripping without any movement. He kept it up until he could easily slide three fingers up in him, tongue able to swirl around them. He could feel Spain's muscles relaxing, feel his legs trembling, hips twitching, and he knew he was ready. 

Spain felt more than ready, compared to previous times, England was so gentle, teasing, breaking him in the best way possible, it was a shock at first, but then the shock dissipated into pure pleasure, ecstasy, he felt as if he’d fall apart when England finally fucked him. He could barely stand, shirt soaked with perspiration, his exposed skin was cold from the sea breeze and early morning chill, yet he felt far too hot, too worked up, too close to the end yet nowhere near close enough. He stood panting, fighting for breath. 

“Please…” 

"Alright, love… I'll give it to you," England said, emerging warm and wet from his crack. Not letting go of his cock, he slid up along Spain's back, trailing his hand until it reached his neck and grabbed him hard. He had Spain against the mast, pulling his hips tight against his front, crushing his neck so he was forced to bend. England's cock was thick and hard, more than ready from all the prep he'd lovingly given Spain, and he barely had to put any pressure on him to press inside. Once he felt the breach he rammed his hips forward, sliding in with one deep rush. 

England breathed out heavily and just stood still, let Spain grip him, feel his heat. Without moving anything else England began jerking his hand, beating Spain and holding him tight against the pole. 

"How's that? Better now?" England asked, his voice lowered to a lusty growl.

Spain wailed when England pushed inside, and again when his hand started moving. He canted his hips forward against England’s hand and back against his hips, unable to decide what pleasure to chase first, he wanted it all at once. Greedily, selfishly, he wanted it all. But he also wanted England to feel as good as he did, return the favor tenfold. 

He clenched around England’s cock, holding him like a vice. 

England felt the increased pressure and cursed, grabbing Spain harder in retaliation, finally letting his hips move and slide against the heavenly friction. 

"That's it, you're gonna get it now Spain…" England panted out, picking up a fast pounding rhythm, finally fucking him deeply. This time he held his hand still, just let Spain feel it from the back, never giving him both at once. 

Spain's legs finally gave out, only being held up by England. He cried out, feeling every thrust, every inch, it was overwhelming and he couldn't stop the rush of pleasure that threatened to wash over him.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, mierda!" 

England crushed him to the mast, didn't let him get away, didn't let him slip, half held up by his arms, half held up by his dick, he finally gave him both - jerking him off and rutting into him at the same time, the same precise rapid pace. 

"That's right, yes, sing for me Spain, let it out…" 

Spain let out a loud, long noise of pleasure, cheek pressed to the mast and hands grappling uselessly at the wood, clawing at it. He was clenching sporadically and spasmodically, his toes curled in his boots and he was powerless to stop the rapidly approaching orgasm, his whole body coiled tight. Between his moans, he cursed, some in English, others in Spanish, slipping between the two. With a cry, he spilled over England's hand, his own stomach, the mast. He felt well and truly boneless, well fucked and sated, but his orgasm didn't abate. Pleasure running through his veins and setting him alight. It was too much, but also not enough. 

England laughed breathily, not slowing his pace as he heard Spain cry out and felt him twitch and jerk around him. 

“Yes, Spain, yesyesyesyes, God - you’re so fucking good, damn! You’re gonna make me cum, fuck-” England was slipping, falling into the pleasure, and he pulled out at the last second, spun Spain around on the spot, and shoved him to his knees, beating himself right to the edge and spilling himself onto his face, his open mouth and lips, his eyes still half-lidded from his own release. God, Spain looked good covered in his cum. England breathed heavily and let his thumb stroke Spain’s bottom lip, smear around the splatter of jizz there until his lips were coated in the stuff. 

“Good boy,” England murmured, looking right into his eyes as he said it.

Spain moaned softly at the praise, whole body trembling as he came down from his high. His eyes were hazed with lust, a blissed-out expression on his face, and he felt a wave of exhaustion crest over his body despite the early hour, he slumped forward, the crown of his head resting against England's thigh as he exhaled deeply. 

"Fuuuck…" 

“Yes, we most certainly did,” England chuckled, rubbing Spain’s head affectionately. From their perch, he could feel the sway of the ship, more extreme way up in the crow’s nest, and after a moment he lowered himself down, sitting next to Spain, thigh to thigh. The sky above them was brightening, dawn colors giving way to full strong sunlight, and England just wanted to extend the moment for as long as he could. 

“Was… Was that what you were talking about? I mean… Is this okay?” England asked, still not fully clear on what they had entered into but enjoying it so far. 

Spain smiled, "stop overthinking it, cariño… do what  _ feels _ right," then he looked at England, noting the insecurity on his features, the slight crease of worry on his brow. 

_ Cute.  _

"But yes, like that," it was his turn to feel insecure, "did you... like it?"

England smiled softly, looked away. 

“Yeah, I did,” he responded quietly. “But, now what?” The sex was good, but it was what happened after that which scared England. Intimacy was far more intimidating than taking two dicks at once, he couldn’t just fade out and fake it as he could with fucking. 

Spain felt his cheeks warm, still sated and hazy, he knew exactly what he wanted to do in that moment, more than anything. His eyes wandered honestly to England's lips. But first...

He asked, "do you trust me?" 

The question was heavy, lingering between them. Spain knew he'd probably fucked up by asking such a thing, requesting that from England after all they'd done to each other… 

England was surprised by the question but instead of instantly barbing back with something sarcastic and acerbic as he would have done in the past, he actually paused to consider the question. Their new “alliance” meant something, even if it was just a brief pause to think before responding. A real attempt at an answer instead of just cruel deflection.

“I- I don’t know… I trust you with a sword, with a gun. I trust you enough to let you suck my dick. I trust you more than France, but that doesn’t mean much,” England said slowly, picking at a stray thread as he spoke. “Why? Do you want me to trust you?” He turned and looked at Spain. “Do you even trust me?” 

Spain didn't break eye contact with England, but it was a lazy eye contact, not charged with any malice or an attempt to make England squirm, even if he did look kinda cute when backed into a wordy corner. 

He was quiet, when the question was turned inward and onto him… "I do," he cleared his throat. "And I want you to trust me when I do this…" 

His body twisted towards England, expression soft and he wet his lips as he leaned in closer, his hand came up to caress England's face, thumb gliding along his skin, ducking his head and running the back of his finger across England's jaw. 

He was gentle, his lips barely there against England's, giving him the option to return or deny the show of intimacy. 

England was afraid of this. Knew what Spain wanted from him, just a simple kiss, but that act touched upon something brittle and starved inside him that had been neglected for centuries. He didn’t know what would happen if he started feeding and coddling it now. It just hurt too much, and the fact that it was the act of bringing their lips together that was so charged - more than sex, more than fighting, more than dying - it was so pathetic that it made him hate himself. He was so weak and stupid if this was all it took to throw him off balance. 

He’d rather break what they were building than admit such a fear, to admit such frailty, to let Spain see that wounded side of him. As Spain moved closer, touched his face, wet his lips in preparation, England felt the internal pressure building and he felt like he might die, that he might explode or implode or something, and he quickly dropped his head down, hunched his shoulder up, scooted his knees in closer, making it impossible to reach him. 

“I- I’m sorry… I can’t…” England mumbled, feeling worse and worse. He was so stupid. Why was he even doing this? Suddenly the crow’s nest wasn’t big enough for both of them. The entire damn ship wasn’t big enough for England and the mountain of insecurity he had to drag everywhere with him. “I have to go,” he said suddenly, in a daze, pushing up from the wooden planks and straddling over the edge to climb down before Spain could trap him there and demand an explanation. England had none to offer, didn’t even understand it himself; all he knew was that he needed to get  _ away _ . 

Spain felt the familiar sting of rejection as England floundered in the face of a kiss and ran away, but this time it was tempered by annoyance. He followed England upright and was able to grab him by the arm before disappearing over the side of the crow’s nest. 

“Hey! Don’t run away from me again!” 

“I- I’m not… I just want to get some wine-”

“ _ That’s  _ running away too, England! Please! Just- look, just stay and talk to me about it, okay? I-” Spain paused and sighed, feeling sad but knowing it was the right thing to do, the only thing that might keep England in that crow’s nest. “I promise I won’t try to kiss you. Not up here. Not now. Come back to me, please… We can talk about it.” 

“I’d rather die!” England snarled and flung Spain’s arm off him and without a second thought let the impulsiveness take hold and he kicked off from the crow’s nest as if taking a dive, but instead of a blue-green lagoon to receive him, there was only hard varnished oak. In the scant seconds it took him to fall he heard himself laughing, knowing it would only be a temporary reprieve, as with everything, but at least it was another way to avoid it. If Spain didn’t want him to run, then he’d better start sprinting. 

The last thing he heard before slamming into the deck and snapping his own damn neck was Spain’s panicked scream of his name. 


	7. Fighting Like an Infection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England’s ghosts wear fiery robes. Spain is haunted by the present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just want to warn readers that there is a brief non-explicit underage scene near the beginning. It is only implied but if you prefer to skip it it’s the first scene in italics. We won’t be doing any explicit underage scenes in this story but past events will be referenced.

Spain nearly ripped the door off its hinges as he slammed his foot into the intricate woodwork, forcing it open. He held England in his arms, hefting his weight as he lost some of his grip with the power behind his kick. He was limp and his head bloody, lolling there lifeless.

“Get up, asshole! I need that bed!” Spain shouted, rounding the bed to the side France wasn’t occupying and gently laying England down. 

Only then did he wipe at his face with his sleeve for the first time since leaving the crow’s nest, he was streaked with tears and anguish and more spilled over his cheeks as fast as he’d wiped them away. 

The wet thud echoed in his ears, haunted him, and a small sob escaped his lips. 

This was his fault…

All his fault…

France jolted awake as Spain busted in, exclaiming a loud  _ sacrebleu!  _ as he stumbled out of bed. He quickly gained his bearings, saw England’s slack body crowned with a grisly head wound, Spain’s distraught face, and he focused in an instant. 

“What happened to him, Spain?” France asked, coming closer to the bed again to look closer. 

Spain didn’t want to answer the question, didn’t want to relive the memory any more than he already was… didn’t want to admit he was the reason for England’s death.

“He… fell. From the crow’s nest…” He said, making sure France didn’t get too close. 

“He  _ fell _ ? I find that hard to believe! What really happened? Did he get drunk? Ah, of course, he reeks of wine. What was he even doing up there? Being a reckless fool I suppose, typical,” France sighed and shook his head. He’d quite gotten over his initial surprise, already the situation seemed funny to him. He bit his tongue to keep from saying anything else but his eyes were crinkled up in amused judgment of his fallen rival. He’d never let him live this down. 

He turned to look at Spain, felt the smile come over him despite trying to hold back. 

“And where were you,  _ Espagne _ ?” France smirked. 

“I was… with him,” Spain admitted quietly, looking down. “He… jumped.” A sniffle, more tears, and he held his head in his hands. “To get away from me…” 

France sighed again, loudly. Dismissively.

“Ah, Spain, you need to be careful with that one. He acts tough but he’s made of spun glass. And not afraid to shatter himself. Though I suppose you’ve figured that out now. Don’t let his drama act get to you, he’ll be back just as cranky as ever, you’ll see,” France said knowingly, already stretching and striding around the room to recover the silver tray, bring it back over and slide both himself and the food onto the bed. 

“Here, eat something. You can have his share,” France laughed lightly as he picked up a laverbread cake. 

“Not hungry…” Spain sighed, all too aware of the gaunt emptiness of his stomach, how it’d been empty since he’d boarded England’s ship. He swiped at his eyes with the backs of his hands, looking up to see the laverbread, the blackish-green medallion, and how France held it between his fingers, grimacing. “What the fuck is that? I’ve never seen that before.”

“Here, try it! I insist,” France pushed it toward Spain’s mouth, opening his own as if to say, open wide, here it comes. 

“I’m not hungry,” Spain repeated in a low growl. 

France rolled his eyes and took it to his mouth instead. 

“You and England are so alike, overreacting to every little thing. And it’s called laverbread, by the way, it’s made from seaweed and it’s delicious. You’re missing out,” France said, leaning back on the bed. He glanced at England and smiled, reaching out to brush the fringe from his forehead, peeling away the strands gummed with blood. 

“Ah, now this is nostalgic. Lying in bed together waiting for him to wake up again after his latest stunt. You know, he used to kill himself  _ all _ the time when he lived at my house. It was ages ago, ancient history now, but I thought he would have grown out of it,” France mused, idly fiddling with his hair, thumb brushing over his eyebrow. “I used to wait for him, just like this,” France said, voice soft and misty, recalling a younger, smaller England. Fingers tracing the bridge of his nose, thumb sliding down against his cheekbone, dividing and then reforming, three fingers resting on his faded lips. 

Spain watched him, feeling a growing rage inside him. How dare he. 

With lightning-fast precision, he gripped France’s wrist and yanked his hand away from England with considerable strength. 

“Touch him, and Lucille can have your country,” he scowled, face twisted in a sneer. 

France glared in response and wrenched his hand back. 

“What did I just say? Always overreacting with you two! Besides, it doesn’t work like that,” France hissed, “You’re on my ship, in my room, in my bed. I’ll touch whoever I damn well please! Besides, we’ve both already tasted him, did it together even, what’s your problem?” 

Spain met his glare with a steely gaze. 

“I recently discovered I don’t like sharing,” Spain hissed

France laughed out loud at that. 

“That implies ownership, darling. England would never stoop to that, he won’t let anyone in so you can drop the wounded lover act. It’s wasted on him,” France said dismissively. “Now, unlike you, I have a ship to run and a crew to command and an island to govern. Don’t spend all day in here with a corpse,” France concluded and began strutting around the room getting dressed and ignoring Spain and England as if they weren’t even there. 

Spain watched him for a few moments before returning his attention to England, the way France had stroked his lips left him wondering. Just what had happened between them?

\----

_ His small body lay still on the narrow bed in the very early grey light, before the sun rose, before the earliest rooster, only the bakers were awake, kindling the ovens but they wouldn’t come here to his small room in the large house. They couldn’t see him breathing - no one could. He wasn’t alive, knew how to hide there and delay his life, dim his luster, sour his sweetness and scrape down his softness until he was the opposite of alive. He was a corpse and he could stay that way. Perfectly unfeeling.  _

_ He knew what usually came next. Washing the corpse, a basin with water, fresh clothes - and he certainly needed it. The blood from the knitting needle that he’d punctured through his neck left him coated and dingy. It was strange. Killing himself and then waking up there, in his shabby bed, such a mundane place and yet it still managed to feel unfamiliar in his current state, like shadows playing over the wall changing the quality of a space without touching anything.  _

_ But no matter. He wasn’t going to wake up anyway. Not this time. They couldn’t make him. Even if they tried to insist he was alive and forced him up to get up and walk and talk and act - even then he would remain a corpse.  _

_ The door opened and shut, but being a corpse, he didn’t need to say anything to the hulking figure. He knew who it was, but in the confusing grey-lit time, the shadows deformed the visitor, transformed into an ill-defined beast. He could see the bloodstains down his chest, dark streaks dipping beneath the covers; he silently prayed none of it had dripped lower. He was icy-still as the figure sat on the edge of the bed. Large hands drifted onto him, first over the top of the quilted blanket covering him - rubbing him down while the rest of the world still slept, while he was still dead - and then they slipped under the sheet, under his shirt.  _

_ Slithering over him with an overpowering blood-beat, singeing his breastbone for how warm he was compared to a corpse’s frozen skin. His touch was like an electrical shock, sending sparks of life through him, soft strokes that glided and gilded, and he knew he must resist it. He was dead. He couldn’t feel it. But when the touching turned to gripping, when the beast leaned over him and began smothering his lips, pawing his face with delicate traces, breathing life into him directly, he had no choice but to respond.  _

_ He breathed hard, knew this happened because he liked it, knew he was crazy for liking it, and it was why he so desperately wanted to stay as a corpse. Then he wouldn’t get in trouble. Then it would be easy to keep it secret. To not feel. _

\----

Spain sat beside England on the bed, watching his features and waiting for the tiniest movement to indicate he was beginning to wake up. So far, nothing. He felt tiredness licking at his mind, but he refused to relinquish control to his sleep deprivation. He wanted to be the first thing England saw when he woke up, hopefully a comfort and not an anxiety. 

He thought about what France had said,  _ that implies ownership… England would never stoop to that.  _

Had he fucked up by saying such a thing? Would England hate him for it? 

The fragile tendrils of the alliance they'd been creating… the even more frail trust between them… he'd ruined everything. He rested his head in his hands and closed his eyes as a fresh bout of tears washed over his face. 

Fuck…. 

He shuffled down the bed, laying down beside England and holding his hand gently as if he would break. When he awoke he'd ask him if this… alliance was something he wanted or something he felt like he'd been forced into. Depending on his answer would decide Spain's next move… but for now, he'd keep him company, watch over his wake until he revived, fingers interlaced and body pressed into him, head resting on his shoulder, as he settled in beside him. 

Eventually, after over an hour, England’s chest jerked and shuddered and began to rise and fall again. Another 20 minutes passed before his fingertips twitched and his eyes started moving behind his lids and finally, already past noon, England finally woke up. His lips cracked and he let out a tiny whimper, eyes scrunching tighter before finally fluttering open. 

He took a moment to orient himself before he moved an inch. He was on France’s ship still, it was the middle of the day, and after a second he felt the warmth of another hand, another body next to his. Spain. England let his eyes close again. Sighed. A temporary reprieve indeed. He remembered the feeling of freefall, the instantaneous darkness upon impact, the conversation that got too close and made him want to take the leap in the first place…

He was a mess. Of course, Spain would see that. Would come to his senses. 

Spain felt him move, jolting up into a sitting position. He’d almost fallen asleep. Shit. 

He pressed his lips into a tight line and swallowed, unsure what to say as he stared down at England. What did you say to someone who’d killed themselves instead of talking to you? 

“Are… you okay…?”

England sighed, put his armor back on. 

“Yeah, totally fine. Nothing like a swan dive to clear your head in the morning, right? I’m not even drunk anymore thanks to that,” England said snippily, sitting up slowly. “Better go fix that - you coming with me?” 

Spain didn’t appreciate his tone of voice, he still couldn’t get the sound of England’s body hitting the wood out of his head, out of his senses, He looked at the dried blood over England’s body. It was traumatic for both of them. 

But, it was now or never. 

“I… was actually hoping we could have a quick talk. Then you can go get drunk.” Spain looked down at his hands that were in his lap. He had to keep them busy, eyes roaming around the room for anything he could use. He saw France’s bath, grander than the little sitz tub in England's quarters. “Wait there.” 

He climbed off the bed, going over and wetting a rag with some water he’d found in a jug next to the bath. It was cold and smelled floral, but it’d do if it meant keeping England still long enough to talk without him being in a drunken stupor. He wrung the rag out and began walking back to the bed, perching on the edge as he held it out to England, “may I?” He asked, “or would you like to do it?”

England wanted to fight back against the care Spain was offering, but he was just so tired. He might as well get it over with. There was only one way the talk could go, might as well feel his hands on him one last time. To answer Spain’s question he turned his back to him, presenting the sodden crusty knot of the sheet still wrapped around him. 

“Have at it,” he said woodenly. 

Spain nodded, knowing he couldn’t see it. He didn’t undress him immediately, focusing on cleaning the dried blood from his exposed skin first, his neck, his shoulders. He made sure to apply pressure, sweeping across his skin in circles and feeling the knots in his muscles. 

“I need to ask you something… and I want you to answer honestly,” Spain said, working over his right shoulder and down to his shoulder blades. “Is this alliance something you definitely want? Because just say the word and… I’ll-- I’ll be gone. Or we’ll go back to our old dynamic…”

England looked at his hands, opened and closed them on his lap, tried to sift through his feelings. 

“Honesty, huh? The truth is I have no idea what I want and… And, well, fuck. Spain, I’m terrified,” England said the last two words so quietly, felt himself curling inward around them. He kept trying, knew this was his last chance. “I like how your hands feel on me. I like fighting with you. I like drinking with you. I- I don’t know why… Why it’s so… so fucking hard… And it’s pathetic, and I’m not worth it and god, you know what I’m like. I don’t understand why you’d even want me…” England trailed off. “I’m no good, why would you… You’re just so goddamn bright Spain! I can’t match that, I’ll just taint you like I do with everything else,” England finished in a rush.

Spain untied the knot in the cloth and moved it out of the way, the rag traveling down England’s arms as he listened. When he’d finished talking, Spain rested his chin on England’s shoulder, arms coming around his waist. His heart felt heavy, a sting in his chest. He spoke softly. 

“I think… you’re overthinking, at least with me.” He turned his head and rested his cheek on England’s shoulder instead, his arms squeezing gently. “I don’t want this to cause you stress… I want this to make you happy. Enjoy things, not fear them, and take drastic actions to avoid them… If you dislike something I do, then I want you to tell me so I don’t do it anymore, or at least don’t do it until you’re ready… I’ll start asking too!” 

He stared vacantly at England’s shoulder, now resting his lips against the soft skin, “I don’t know what secrets you have, I don’t know what you hide… But I want to know, not right away, of course. It takes time and trust to reveal the devil on your shoulder… Things we just don’t have yet… But I have a hunch that it wasn’t pleasant, and I do think it has something to do with the monster commandeering this ship… So when you’re ready, I want you to go back to your ship. I’ll get Mateo, and we’ll leave this ship, this island. We’ll go to England and get provisions, then get back to the open water. As free as the gulls.” 

Chest throbbing, heart pounding, it was just too good to be true. Freedom, power, it was why he went to sea in the first place, he never imagined sharing it with someone. England sniffed, lowered his head to his hands, and took a deep breath. 

“Alright. Let’s do it,” England said without looking up. He was still scared, still didn’t trust the situation, but Spain was right. He didn’t want to stay on this ship a moment longer; they’d been delayed there too long already. They could figure out the details later. “Though, you’re gonna need my help getting Andorra back. Remember what happened last time?”

Spain felt his cheeks warm with embarrassment, “yeah… uh… that’s a better idea.” He looked at him, “If we wait for Mateo to finally emerge from his pit, I’ll keep France busy and you get Mateo off the boat?” 

“Right, like last time. Don’t leave me high and dry again. What are you gonna do about the she-devil?”

“I, uh, was kind of hoping nature would take its course…” Spain said before elaborating, “I mean… When I stabbed her, the knife was dirty. She didn’t clean it after stabbing you… Is it bad I’m hoping infection will take hold?”

England chuckled, pushing himself up to standing with a groan, already looking around for some clothes he could steal. 

“You know? I completely forgot about that. She’ll be dead in no time since it’s my sludge on there, ha!” England laughed. He threw open a wardrobe in the corner and rifled through the shirts and jackets, opting for a simple loose white top with large billowing sleeves, a pair of tight black trousers that clung to him. France’s jackets wouldn’t fit him anyway. Didn’t mean he should get to keep them either. “Well, while we’re waiting for Andorra…” 

England trailed off and opened the crotch of the trousers he’d just secured, pulled his limp dick out, and began to urinate right into the wardrobe itself, swaying his hips back and forth to ensure the stream hit every article of clothing and pooled in the shoes at the bottom. When England was done he gave it a shake and put himself away, closing the wardrobe as if nothing had happened. 

“We’ll leave that as a surprise for him. Maybe I’ll shit on his desk too…” England mused, strolling over. He tipped the inkwell over instead with a casual bump, smiled maniacally watching the black stain over his maps, documents, the wood itself. “Oops,” England said, absolutely not sorry for it. 

Spain laughed, “chupamela, France! Or don’t.” He shrugged with a snicker. “It’s mine.” He sauntered over to the inkwell, slamming his hand into the ink and running to the door France seemed to take pride in. He’d already kicked it, it’d be a shame not to follow through with some jet black ink. 

He slapped the wood, a gooey handprint being left behind with splashes around it and all. 

“Oh, have you ever heard of laverbread?” Spain asked, the ink reminding him of the dark green pulp.

“Laverbread? Yeah, it’s from my neck of the woods, they make it in Wales and the Irish sea. Why? Does France have some?” England asked, eyes still casting about for more stuff to wreck. 

“Uh, yeah, he had a little.” Spain looked at his ink-covered hand, unsure how England would take the information, knowing France had been so far into his territorial waters. 

"Hmmph. That frog. Forget his stuff, let's destroy everything. I'm taking his ship." England said with a wild grin.

“Wait, I don’t think that’s such a good idea, England.” Spain spoke up, “we’re hopelessly outnumbered by his crew right now, even if it’s a skeleton crew, we still have to escape the bay. Which will be nearly impossible with the shape of this island. We’re best sticking to the plan and then trying on the open water.” 

"I don't mean take it for myself, I mean take it  _ from  _ France. We don't have to escape in it if it's at the bottom of the bay. We can sabotage the rudder, slice up his sails, cut through coils of rope, make a run for it before they even realize," England said, already getting more excited at the prospect. 

“You really like destroying ships, don’t you?” Spain asked, remembering the fate that’d befell his own vessel. “I’ll leave that to you, I’ll go get Mateo.” 

England cackled, rubbing his hands together. 

"See, this is why we might work, you get me. I'll meet you back at my ship. Don't get impaled again," England said, catching his eyes as he said it.

"No promises," Spain grinned, leaving the room and walking onto the deck, picking up Alfanje and its sheath, settling them at his hip. 

He made his way down into the galley, a slow walk as he thought about what he might find in Lucille's room, hoping his first mate was still alive.

Down the corridor, fingers poised on Alfanje's hilt as he approached Lucille's quarters.

He knocked on the door, waiting for several seconds before calling for Mateo. 

"Mateo!"

Several more seconds, he opened his mouth and the latch on the door slid almost in time with him. 

**"Cap'n?"**

**"Mateo, time to go,"** Spain said bluntly.  **"Get your things."**

Mateo looked back into the room before turning back to Spain,  **"I can't."**

**"You** **_can't?"_ **

**"She's… not well."**

Spain froze, remembering what he'd said to England about hoping her wounds would get infected. 

**"We have to go, tell France and make yourself scarce."**

Mateo took a moment before nodding. 

Spain watched Mateo walk past him, peering into the room to see Lucille pacing, gripping her side, bandages wet with red and pale yellow. Her legs shook with every step, like it took all her effort to stay standing, and her skin was pallid and clammy. 

She looked like death warmed over.

"You should lie down," he said, being met by rage-filled eyes and a scowl. "You'll die faster if you're moving around." 

"Shut up," she hissed, "I'll kill you." 

Spain hummed, "not before infection kills you first."

Her eyes widened, and for the first time, Spain recognized fear in them. Despite her bravado, every mortal was afraid to die when it was finally their time. 

She sat on the bed, a full-body shiver vaulting through her, and Spain felt pity. 

Moments later Mateo returned, with France, and Spain stepped out of the way of the door for them to pass him. 

“Oh, my lovely Lucille! What have these nasty nations done to you? You should have told me you were injured worse than just your arm!” France swooped in, shoving Mateo behind him to get closer. He sank to his knees before Lucille, taking her hands in his and looking up into her face. “Don’t worry, I’ve already sent someone to fetch the doctor. They’ll be here soon. But first, show me your wound,” France said gravely. 

Lucille wordlessly lifted her hand from her side, letting him see the mess of pus and blood on her bandages. Her shirt was buttoned until her sternum, then it was open, the fabric also stained on her right side.

Spain watched for a few seconds before grabbing Mateo's wrist, tugging him. 

But he didn't budge. 

**"Mateo,"** Spain hissed. 

But his first mate's eyes remained locked on Lucille's form.

France was cooing soft sweet nothings to Lucille, quiet so only she heard what he said, and trailing his hands up and down her legs, soothing and distracting her from the wound and the fiery fever of infection. 

**"She tried to kill you,"** Spain reminded in a whisper. 

Mateo looked at his captain,  **"but she didn't."**

**"Only because I stabbed her."**

**"She doesn't deserve to die."**

Spain sighed,  **"I'll be right back."** And he began his hunt for England, hoping he wasn't too late.

\----

England was in his element, pure impish chaos. He channeled Pan, brownies, and fae and was running wild through the hull, slashing barrels with his sword, throwing random supplies overboard, cutting ropes and stabbing sails so they were useless, overstuffing braziers and lighting them, finally heading for his masterpiece, the final stroke that would hobble the behemoth. Sails could be mended, ropes rebraided, but a broken rudder could sink the ship without even making it out of the bay. England giggled madly as he vandalized the ship, running quick knowing the few remaining sailors could discover his destruction at any moment. He had to get the biggest prank done before they disembarked. 

He made it to the helm and slid on his knees to the post that held the ties to the rudder, slashing at it until he opened the column and could cut the pulleys directly. After that he took a lock and chain he’d stolen and wound it around the wheel and the steering column, locking it tightly into a fixed position. He’d just finished locking the chain in place and stood with the key when he heard stomping feet running up the deck. 

“Ah, Spain! You’re just in time! Say goodbye to France’s wheel!” England cocked his arm back to throw the key overboard. 

"Wait!" Spain cried, but it was too late, the silver key was already sailing over the edge. He looked at England. "We've got a problem and it doesn't look like it's going to get any better." 

England was still on a high from the property damage and grinned manically at Spain, not concerned about whatever problem might have cropped up. “Whatever it is we’ll deal with it just like I dealt with this ship!” England boasted, striding over and grabbing Spain by the shoulder, directing him to look at the wheel, the helm, the pile of wood shards, and frayed rope scattered about. “It’s even worse below deck. You should see it before we go, I slashed every single barrel left - all except the gross ones, HA! Where’s Andorra? We gotta go before someone sees this-” England barreled off the words in a rush. 

Spain gripped at England's biceps in an attempt to ground him, "no, that's the problem. Lucille is sick and he won't leave her. But she's not looking good, and if she dies I'm certain France will go on a warpath." 

“What? Who  _ cares _ about that woman, France won’t be able to do anything! This ship isn’t going anywhere and by the time he gets the word out, we’ll be long gone. Our people are strong, we don’t have to be there for them to defend themselves. That’s what we got the monarchies for. Don’t be so afraid of that frog-fucker,” England laughed again, refusing to let his good mood be doused. 

Spain frowned, "Practice what you preach before you lecture me. And we're not leaving without Mateo. No way, no how."

“Well, I’ll just knock him out then and drag him away. What is it with nations falling in love with their killers? So weird, isn’t it?” England smirked at Spain and started heading toward the galley. “Let me guess, he’s in her room right now, yeah?” England asked without looking to see if Spain was following him. 

Spain was quick to give chase, jogging to catch up with England before slowing to walk behind him. "Yeah, but so is France." 

“Good thing I found his armory,” England smirked as he produced two pistols from his belt, both identical fresh steel. “These can replace the one your first mate kicked overboard. Nicked that one off France too, heh, the loser…” He passed one to Spain but didn’t stop his rapid stride. 

“Hey, woah, slow down! You don’t need to shoot anyone!” Spain was alarmed at how quickly it had escalated. Sending England out to destroy the ship might have been a bad idea because now he was on a rampage. 

“I’ll only need to shoot two people, that bitch, and that bastard. Cover me, won’t you, love?” England looked briefly over his shoulder at him, his grin wide and feral, eyes alight with blood lust. 

Spain gripped the gun tighter, breathed out heavily. He didn’t like where this was headed…

When they arrived England kicked the door in with enough force that it hit the wall and swung back at him, blocking for a split second before he pushed through again. It was enough time for Mateo to see it however and he stood to block England’s path.

Mateo startled as England burst into the room, eyes wide and he quickly stood in front of the crazed man, blocking him.

"N-- No," he said, raising his hands in what he hoped would show England he didn't want to fight, wanted to just help Lucille then leave. "England." His tone was a warning.  **"She needs help."**

England wasn’t in the mood and didn’t even argue with him, just shot him right in the leg, dropping him to the floor. 

Spain grabbed him by the shoulder, yanking him back to shout in his face, 

“England! Stop it! You’re out of control!”

“What? I shot him in the leg didn’t I? Now move! They’re the ones I really want!” England yelled back, kicking at Spain and shoving him aside. 

France had risen to his feet, stood defensively in front of Lucille who was still stuck sitting on the bed, her face pinched in pain and shock. Spain, from his spot on the floor where he’d fallen, saw what was about to happen, and with regret and determination, he aimed his pistol at England and fired, there was no time for a cleaner shot and the bullet struck him in the head, toppling him over sideways, his gun going off as he fell though it just lodged harmlessly into a wooden beam. 

France and Spain stared at each other, and for a second he considered shooting France in the head too. It was his fault England was like this. But just as the thought crossed his mind he noticed a tendril of smoke start to rise from the floorboard, winding its way out through a small knot in the wood. Suddenly, several more streams of smoke found their way through the floorboards and the room began to get hazy. Spain groaned in frustration.

“He must have set the hull on fire…” 

“ _ What _ ?!” France roared, darting past Spain to get above deck, already shouting at his men to round up the others from the island, help douse the fire. However, England had done his work too well. Buckets for a water line were missing or pierced through the bottom, when France saw the state of the wheel he wailed in anger, a righteous fury that his pride and joy had been so utterly mangled. They couldn’t use the pumps for seawater, they couldn’t move it out of the harbor, and soon the flames had grown too large. 

Spain looked at England, scowling. He unsheathed Alfanje, and in one swoop separated the skinny corner post from the bed, he handed it to Mateo to use as a walking stick. **“Can you manage?”**

Mateo nodded. Climbing to his feet with the help of the post.

Spain hefted England into his arms, making his way to the door before turning to face Lucille. 

“You coming?” 

Lucille scowled, struggling to her feet and clutching her side. He offered her his arm to help keep her upright, surprised to feel her arm snake into his. Even more surprised to find a snake slither up and latch onto her leg, winding up around her ankle and holding on. They left Lucille’s room at a snail’s pace, the risk of falling through the burning floor growing more and more real as the ship became structurally unsound. 

Once upon deck, they saw France. 

“Francis…!” Lucille called breaking away from Spain to stagger drunkenly to France, nearly falling into his arms. 

“We gotta go,” Spain said, “you’re welcome to join us, get a doctor on the next island. She needs medical help.”

"After what this  _ raclure de bidet _ has done to my flagship I deserve more than just a ride to the next island! Sinking a fully furnished galleon! Do you know what this has cost me?!" France stormed as he walked, helping Lucille along, and after a moment scooping her up into his arms bridal style to move more quickly. 

Spain scowled, “I do, actually. He seems to like setting ships on fire. At least yours was an internal affair, he just turned mine to rubble with his cannons.” Spain let Mateo take the lead, wanting to keep him in his sight, not willing to lose him because he fell behind. 

"I say we split him between us again. Make him suffer for his wanton destruction," France said with an angry sneer. "Lord knows the little hellion deserves it."

Spain hummed, “I’ll think about it.” He had no intention of doing that again. 

Mateo led them off the burning ship, collapsing against the sea wall and sliding onto his ass. Spain placed England against the wall as well, he coughed, hunching over himself and trying to rid himself of the burning in his throat and sinuses. Stupid smoke… 

He turned back to the ship, watching France come down the gangway with Lucille in his arms. Behind them the canvas was starting to go, the entire ship billowing thick black smoke.

"We'll get back to England's ship and set sail immediately…" 

"Can't believe we're going to sail in that rinky-dink rowboat… England will pay for this," France continued to fume. If not for Lucille he would have already taken England prisoner to exact retribution but it would have to wait. 

Spain picked England back up once he could breathe properly again, carrying him bridal style as he turned to Mateo. **"Can you manage?"**

**"Yeah."**

They struggled to England's ship, climbing aboard and Spain immediately called out for England's crew. By now England's men were all on board, seeing their captain in Spain's arms. 

"Your captain's orders before he was shot were as follows: Get us to open water," Spain called. "I expect that much of you men." He said, beckoning for France and Mateo to follow him into England's quarters. 

Once inside, he lay England down in the bed, moving him over enough for France to put Lucille on the bed too, moving a chair for Mateo to sit in. Finally, he relaxed. 

Lucille scowled, climbing from France's arms and staggering to the side, "I'm not sharing a bed with  _ him."  _ She fell to her knees. "I'd rather perish." 

Spain shrugged, preparing a wet cloth and starting to carefully wipe England's face. Cleaning the head wound and the blood from his features. He carefully wiped his lips, lingering there for just a moment. Silently apologizing for shooting him. 

He looked over at Mateo, at his wounded leg, it was starting to heal, albeit slowly. 

**"Are you okay?"**

Mateo nodded, eyes vacant. 

The day had taken its toll on all of them…

France looked around at the state of the room, still trashed from when Spain's men mutineered the ship and scoffed in disgust. 

"English pig, he expects us to travel in these conditions… it's fine for trash like him but I'm used to riding in style-" and on and on. Commenting on the size, the barrenness, the lack of polish, and any other negative feature he could think of. The whole while he was on the floor next to Lucille, changing her sodden bandages and rewrapping her with fresh cotton.

"Do you want to save her?" Spain asked grumpily, "with that attitude you might as well give her some mercy and kill her now, save her the pain of infection." 

France glared at Spain, lip curled back in criticism, "I'm capable of doing both. He's going to pay for this through the nose  _ after _ we save Lucille.  _ Sacrebleu _ ! How incompetent are his men?! We should be moving by now!" And just as France said it the ship shuddered and swayed in the waves, loose from its mooring. "Finally!" France huffed. 

Spain looked at England, and knew as soon as he woke up he was going to need to hide - there was no way he was leaving this room alive for letting France onto his vessel. 

Mateo winced as Spain wrapped the bandage around his leg, he watched his captain, on his knees and focused on the task at hand. He cleared his throat. 

**“Cap’n, what are you doing, letting him on board?”**

Spain looked up at Mateo, meeting his gaze,  **“I had to do something.”**

Mateo nodded in understanding,  **“sometimes you’re too kind.”**

The captain smiled ruefully, nodding as he looked down. 

**“But that’s what makes you, well, you. It’s not a bad thing.”**

**“Thanks,”** Spain scoffed, not meeting Mateo’s eyes… He was honestly ready to pass out, just… sleep for days. 

**“How are you holding up? You look tired…”**

**“I am, a lot has happened.”**

**“Why am I not surprised? You always find a way to get into trouble.”**

Spain laughed genuinely, resting his head on Mateo’s knee and closing his eyes.  **“Fucking-- you’re not wrong.”**

Mateo laughed too, and it was only the sound of Lucille coughing that stopped them, they looked over at her and France, on the other side of the room. 

**“I’ll be right back, don’t let him near England.”**

Mateo nodded, watching as Spain stood and left the cabin. His gaze turned to France and Lucille, hobbling over to them using the post of Lucille’s bed. 

Spain looked around the deck, flagging down the nearest crewmates. “We need some hot water, the hotter the better.”

They nodded, leaving to get the water, Spain waited for them to return, and when they did he took the bucket of hot water from them, heading back to the cabin and going inside. 

“Alright, take those bandages off her, get her in the tub.” He commanded. 

"I can take care of her, Spain. No need to hover," France said, already helping her over to the small tub. 

Spain looked at him with a dead stare, “you can stand to hurt her? Because that’s what’s going to happen. A bath would be the wrong way to treat an infection; stewing in water. But flushing the wound might help. Though it’ll hurt.” 

France paused and sighed, "Yes, of course," he set her carefully in the tub, took England's water pitcher to pour it over the wound. 

Spain settled the bucket beside France, opting to make his way back over to the bed and settle beside England. He looked at Mateo, beckoning him to sit next to him. Mateo sat on the other side of the bed, watching France and Lucille. 

Lucille sat in the bath, trembling and her breathing labored, her hand was still pressed into her side, the other gripping the edge of the tub with a white-knuckled grip. 

"Just get it over and done with…" She inhaled sharply.

“Je suis désolé mon amour,” France said intently, holding up her blouse while the warm water streamed over the wound. It ran pink and bared a line of yellow fat, white reticular fibers, the shockingly bright red of exposed muscle, all things that absolutely should never be seen openly in daylight were oozing down her side, glistening wetly. France sucked in a strained breath over his teeth, the damage far deeper than he originally knew, and let Lucille squeeze the life out of his hand as he poured. 

Lucille whined, gritting her teeth and holding onto his hand tightly. It was agonizing, sweat beaded on her forehead, eyes wet, and face splotchy red. Her vision faded several times, the first time she feared it was her time and held onto France tighter, the second time she reclined her head to stop the room spinning. 

"This wasn't how I expected to die…" 

“You’re not going to die, I won’t let you. You’re going to become a nation and follow your dream, understand? And I’ll be with you every step of the way,” France said passionately, setting the pitcher aside and pressing more clean cloth to the wound, staunching the blood flow. 

She hissed at the pressure, squirming in the tub. She wished she could believe him… but she never had. She hadn't believed anyone in a long time. 

The pain finally became too much, Lucille felt her body slipping, losing grasp on lucidity and as her vision tunneled, her face grew pale, lips tinged blueish-purple and her eyes slipped closed, her body sagging against the sides of the tub.

France sighed, both worried and relieved. 

“I think she can stand to lie on the bed now that she’s out. Still have room for her?” He asked, sounding weary. 

Spain nodded, "yeah, " he motioned for Mateo to stand, doing so himself. "Here." 

Mateo immediately jumped up to free the side of the bed he was occupying as France scooped Lucille from the tub, wrapping a towel around her, and depositing her on the bed. 

The ship creaked and swayed and changed course, steadily navigating its way out of the bay, England’s crew was reliable when they were focused and nothing like the threat of a French retaliation gave them the pressure to perform well. In no time the ship passed out of reach of the island, slowly growing smaller in the distance. 

France looked down at England next to Lucille, his head was still dark where the healing hole had yet to fill. They were both pale and shrunken, the only difference was the passive rise and fall of Lucille’s chest, and England’s absolute stillness. 

“We have two firecrackers on our hands, that’s for certain. No wonder they can’t stand each other,” France observed, leaning over to brush the sweaty curls from Lucille’s face. “Though, England hates everyone, to be fair,” he gave a humorless chuckle. 

"And Lucille doesn't hate everyone?" Spain asked with a quirk of his brow. 

France smirked deeply, eyes hazed over remembering some seedy situation. 

“She doesn’t hate me~ I know that for certain.  _ She wouldn’t fuck my ass so well if she did _ ,” France glanced at Mateo with that same smirk, saying the last bit in French knowing he could understand and would appreciate the comment. 

Spain looked at him,  _ really _ looked at him. 

" _ She  _ fucks  _ you?"  _

Then Spain's gaze looked to Mateo, watching him look away and scratch his nose. 

France laughed loudly, amused by their prudishness. “Oh, but of course! We’d have it no other way!  _ What did she do to you, Andorra? _ ” France asked slyly. 

Mateo continued to hide his face by looking away, focusing on a spot on the wall. But his ears were tinged pink. 

**"Uhm, stuff,"** Mateo answered in Spanish. 

Spain looked between the pair of them, experiencing curiosity. Apparently, since being on England's ship he's learned a lot about things he already thought he knew a lot about.

"What do you… y'know…  _ use?"  _

"Oh, several custom leather harnesses and any number of dildos. I would have shown you my collection, but  _ this _ -" France reached over to grab England's jaw, pinching his cheeks, cracking his mouth open, and lifting his limp head from the bed, " _ relou  _ sank them into the bay… All that's left is my very angry and very real boner. I should fuck his damn mouth until he wakes up and chokes on it again!" France snarled.

Spain scowled and hit France's hand. 

"Back off," he growled. Suddenly rearing his hand back for another slap. "Focus on  _ her."  _

France frowned at Spain, taking in his defensive body language. 

"What is it, Spain? Did he promise you something? Does he have some leverage over you? You've been awfully protective of someone who has been keeping you prisoner and torturing you… What's happened between you two?" France asked suspiciously.

Spain suddenly felt the room’s eyes on him, the mention of torture making even Mateo turn to take a look at him. He remembered England’s conditions, how no one was to know.

“Nothing,” Spain replied neutrally, looking away. 

France looked him up and down doubtfully. 

“Oh, really? You have no claim over him? Then you don’t mind if I have a taste, right?” France leaned in, bringing his face toward England’s, cold dead lips only scant inches apart from his. 

Spain’s fist connected with France’s face before he’d even had time to process the words. He stood, walking around the bed to continue what he’d started, ire in his green eyes.

“I don’t know what you did, or what you plan to do. But it’s over my dead body, France,” Spain hissed, fisting his hands at his sides. 

France gave him an evil eye from the floor, holding his jaw where he’d been struck. He rubbed it and sat up, saying nothing until he was fully upright against and had brushed himself down. 

“Spain. Darling. You can’t have it both ways. I have just as much a right to him as you do, if not more. It’s that, or you need to make your intentions clear. I’ll leave it for now, but honestly - why him? He’s not worth it. He’ll hate you for it, even,” France said coldly.

Spain scowled, opening his mouth to retort, but England’s words echoed in his mind, to protect him from France, to tell no one about their… arrangement. 

“I made a promise to protect him if he was ever killed, and he’d give me my freedom in return. That’s all there is to it.” 

France scoffed. “Sure, whatever you say. What I said still stands. Hate is all he knows. That and getting drunk and being a thorn in my side. When you’re sick of protecting him let me know and I’ll take him off your hands…” France taunted, already turning away to open some cabinets and start rifling through. He snorted in haughty judgment at what he found. 

“Hey, stop that!” Spain crossed the room, giving chase and closing in on him. “You fucking-- are you braindead? Stop looking through his things.” 

“Why? He’s clearly got nothing but that gaudy loot. How typical, just piling it all together like some dragon. It’s not even enough to cover the cost of my ship, let alone yours! He didn’t even bother getting the load out first! Not only did he burn my flagship he also destroyed a year’s worth of French wine at the same time! This measly amount of gold won’t even cover the cost of that! I’m entitled to anything on this boat, including the boat itself!” France was flushed with anger, passionate as he verbalized how devastating the loss truly was. “And to top it off… Lucille…” He deflated a bit with her name. He sighed, stood straight, and closed the cabinet. 

“I’m not a heathen like him. I’ll get what I’m owed in other ways.  _ Andorra, watch over her. You’re her protector,” _ France declared. “Now, I need some air. There are too many nations in one space. It’s enough to make anyone feel a bit high-strung.” He sauntered toward the door. 

Spain grabbed his wrist, tugging him back. “You’re not going anywhere - as if I’d let you out of my sight after what’s just happened.” He frowned at France, “I--” 

From her position on the bed, Lucille coughed and she tucked in on herself, curling up as best as she could given the situation. Everything hurt. 

France glanced at her with concern but stopped himself from running to her side. Instead, he wordlessly nodded his chin at Mateo and gestured him over toward her direction before returning his gaze to Spain. 

“Listen, I don’t mind playing together, and all the fake niceties, but at the end of the day I’m the most powerful nation on this boat. It may be England’s ship, but I already own him. If you’re going through the effort of ‘protecting’ him then you might as well get compensated. You should kiss him when he’s like this, it’s the only time he’ll let you,” France said with a sneer, wrenching his arm free. “Now, excuse me,” And he shoved the door open to step out on the deck. 

Spain was about to give chase, but then he realized leaving England alone with Lucille was a bad idea, whether she was awake or not. He looked at Mateo, looking at Lucille with a saddened expression. 

**“Mateo, follow France, I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him. I’ll look after these two.”**

He hesitated for a moment, but then he nodded and left the room, giving chase. 

Spain sat down at the end of the bed, looking over the two, he sighed. Waiting was always the hardest part. He rubbed along England’s lower leg, feeling his cold skin. Still nowhere near ready for revival…

“Why do you... care... about him so much…?”

His head snapped up to look at Lucille who was struggling to sit up. 

“Because I made a promise.” 

“Bullshit,” she spat, “promises are easier to make… than keep…” Spain was about to retort, but she continued to speak. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?” He looked down, remaining silent because he didn’t know what to say. “I thought… so…” She looked away. “I want you to do me… a favor, then… and kill me before Francis returns…” 

_ “What?” _ Spain asked, eyes wide. 

“If I’m...going to die, I want to die… on  _ my _ terms.”

Spain bit his lip, “I understand… But France would kill me, so do it yourself and try not to make a mess.” 

Lucille scowled, “fine, fetch me my knife.” 

“I said do it yourself; I’m having no part in this.” 

Lucille growled, climbing from the bed and immediately falling to her knees, coughing and hacking and grimacing. 

“Are you--” 

She started crawling over to where her knife was left earlier. 

\----

**“Oi, what are you doing?”** Mateo asked France, following after him. 

“ _ Fresh air, fresh captain, someone’s got to lead right? _ ” France said without slowing, already heading toward the helm and casting his eyes around the deck sizing England’s crew up. 

**“They won’t listen to you.”**

“ _ They’ll listen to me when I tell them about the rocks surrounding the island. I’ve been here for months and know the waters well, _ ” France said confidently, striding over to the navigator and striking up a conversation as if he were already in charge. 

Mateo watched him closely, looking out to the sea as he followed France. What had he got himself into, following Spain so loyally? 

Mateo caught up with France, listening in to the conversation but not picking up much. 

\----

England felt the first sparks of life through freshly-grown nerves, synapses firing and reforming with the same fiery jolt as if being struck by lightning. It hurt incredibly, wholly, every nerve and neuron on fire as they individually reconnected and remeshed together, unable to think or move, only experience the shocking pace of clawing back from death, one cell at a time. 

He felt everything but was still completely paralyzed, agonized and unable to even express it. It was a searing internal relief when he felt his fingers start to twitch. By the time he had enough nerves for his lungs, throat, voice to work right, the first thing that emerged was a long-suppressed scream.

Spain and Lucille both startled at the scream, Spain crossing the room from where he’d been pottering around and straightening up the room to approach England. 

“England, are you okay?” 

Lucille watched them both intently, fingers resting on the handle of the knife, eyes wide as she focused in on England. 

England couldn't form words yet, just letting out all the torture of revival he hadn't been able to express, limbs twitching and shaking as they were reconnected. After a moment he was able to stop the uncontrollable screaming, he forced himself to bite his lip, breathing rapidly, twitching and jerking along his whole body. He was sweating and whimpering, knew how helpless he looked, how helpless he truly  _ was _ , regrowing brains made his entire body hurt in a uniquely excruciating way and it took so much longer than other injuries. Headshots were the worst. 

Spain rubbed his back soothingly, sitting down beside him, "it's alright, you're okay, just… breathe…"

"Bastard…" England breathed, his first word, unable to say more for a moment as another seizure rattled through him. 

"I know… I'm sorry," Spain said, looking down, "I just--" 

The sound of a groaning gasp filled the room, a wet sound that had Spain turning to look at the origin of the noise. Seeing Lucille with the knife embedded in her gut. 

"Shit…" 

England heard the slithering sound of metal gutting flesh and tried to control the next wave of nerves, trying jerkily to sit up and see, still unable to lift himself. Everything was uncoordinated as a newborn, just barely able to move. He fell back against the sheets quivering. 

Spain stood, ran over to Lucille, and fell to his knees beside her, “shitshitshitshit…” He climbed to his feet again and leaned out the door, “France!! Mateo!!”

France and Mateo both looked up from the helm and started toward the captain’s quarters, arriving on the scene at the same time. As soon as France saw the blood and Lucille keeled over with a dagger protruding from her stomach, he shoved Mateo forcefully out of the way knocking him on the ground as France rushed to Lucille’s side. 

“Lucille! No! H-how did this happen?!” France exclaimed, face pale and shocked, cradling Lucille and holding his hand against the fresh hole. He looked from her face to Spain’s looking frightened and furious. 

"I-- I wanted to…" Lucille grimaced, "go on my own terms…  _ he _ wouldn't help… me, so I did it myself…" She looked at Spain, a half-hearted glare. Mateo was quick to her side after righting himself, kneeling and hand hovering uselessly over her body, unsure of what to do. 

Spain couldn’t believe she’d deflected blame from him… He wholly felt as if it was his fault, her acting on his orders…

“Go out on your own terms? Lucille! This isn’t what you want! What happened to the fighter who wouldn’t stop following me even after I sliced her up? Where’s the girl who went swinging at a general? Because, surely, that woman wouldn’t be such a coward as this! You’re so close to achieving your dream, I’m not going to let you waste it just because you got a little gangrene in your gut!” France said passionately, though his hands were shaking, his face taut with fear and imminent loss. 

Lucille grit her teeth, “that woman… never existed…!” She tugged the knife free from her body, going rigid and breathing heavily, she slammed the bloody blade through the floor in front of France. “That woman… came to be… because of revenge…! But I’m not… going to become a nation…” Her lashes grew wet as she furiously blinked away tears, her voice cracking as she tried to remain steady. “I don’t have a chance… at revenge anymore… I don’t want this infection… to reduce me… to nothing… At least this way… It’s my time… it’s my choice…”

She craned her head back, inhaling through gritted teeth as she clutched her stomach, rivulets of sweat framed her face, dampening her hair, and matting the strands together. “Ahhh,” she groaned at the gripping pain in her abdomen. 

**“Lucille…”** Mateo whispered. He’d never felt so powerless. He turned to Spain, and then France, looking between them.  **“Surely there’s a way…”**

France shook his head, not willing to let her go, but also knowing the reality of the situation. 

“She’s lost too much blood, even without the infection, the wound was bad enough, and now this…?” France said, not knowing what to do next. 

Spain saw Mateo not understanding and simply said, “ **She needs blood,** ” the outcome obvious. 

“ **I can give her some of mine! What are we waiting for?”**

“ **Mateo… We don’t have the supplies to do that; it has to go in a vein or - “**

“Hey…” England said weakly from the bed. Still not able to rise. “Would a syringe work?”

Spain turned to look at England. It'd take a while, but a syringe might just work.

"Yeah… that might work. But first, we need to close the wound." He turned to Mateo,  **"close the wound?"**

**"You could use gunpowder,"** Mateo said,  **"I once saw a man in Murcia use it to close an amputation…"**

Lucille was shaking now, going into shock from blood loss and pain. She wasn't listening anymore, focusing on her labored breathing, her vision tunneling, body going limp and then going rigid with every breath, she inhaled deeply, groaning as she exhaled. Her arms felt numb, legs faring no better… she bit her lip. She was scared and a tear rolled down her deathly-pale cheeks. 

**"I'll get the syringe,"** Spain said, "France, do you have any gunpowder?" 

“On my ship I did… I’ll ask the sailors,” France said, already passing Lucille gently over to Mateo so he could go and rustle some up. 

“Spain… It’s in the top drawer of the desk, beneath the false bottom,” England said, closing his eyes again to focus on his own recovery. They were lucky he happened to revive at that moment and could tell them about his hidden opium pipe and pewter syringe and needles. Too bad Spain knew about his stash compartment now… Yet another secret he’d ferreted out of him. It was exhausting. 

England didn’t care about Lucille, had no qualms whatsoever if she bled out, but the way everyone was panicking over her made him bring it up. If they’d found out later he had a way to save her and didn’t even mention it… Well, France was already pissed enough at him, he was certain. Spain, things were more complicated than ever. Andorra, well, he still greedily wanted him for his own crew and didn’t want to lose him before he’d even started. 

England sank wearily into the blankets and sighed as another random tremor wriggled its way through him. They were lucky he was so generous, he thought to himself. 

Spain went to the desk, opening the top drawer and emptying its contents onto the desktop, he lifted the bottom of the drawer and found the mentioned items. He took them out, taking the pewter syringe to Lucille. 

“Thanks, England.” He smiled. 

Mateo held her closer, trying to keep her warm. She felt so cold, deathly cold in his arms. At this rate, he wouldn’t have enough blood to save her. 

France returned at that moment with a small pouch of gunpowder and immediately sank to his knees next to Mateo and began daubing her wounds while he held them closed. The gunpowder helped staunch the flow, absorbing blood quickly and clumping into a styptic paste. It was a messy, dirty job, but there wasn’t anything else to do to stop the blood flow, the infection they still had time to figure out but it would be for nothing if she died within minutes. 

**“Keep the gunpowder coming. It needs to be dry.”** Mateo said, using his fingers to spread the gunpowder around the wound. He stood, looking around for a source of ignition. Seeing a candle burning he went over and collected it, carrying the holder over to Lucille.  **“Alright, stand back.”**

Spain was quick to move back, pulling France with him. 

Mateo grimaced, leaning in to apologize to Lucille before connecting the flame to the gunpowder. She screamed in agony, writhing as the instantaneous burning and explosion ripped across her abdomen. Suddenly she went quiet, unconscious, sweat-slicked skin glistening in the candlelight. 

"Never seen it done that way before… How often does that actually work rather than just blowing the bitch to bits?" England scoffed from his resting place, his surly attitude slowly coming back as more and more nerve endings came alive. He was almost there…

Spain looked at him with a small scowl, then back to Lucille, he looked at her chest, just to see the rise and fall of life… it was there. But just barely. 

"Okay, we need to act fast and get the blood going.  **Mateo, are you ready?"**

**"Yes."**

Spain prepared the needle and syringe. "I need something…" he looked around, before gripping his belt and tying it around Mateo's arm. "So I can see where I'm jabbing…" Spain took a breath, seeing the largest vein in the crook of his elbow and sliding the needle into the vein. 

He extracted the first syringe-full of blood, starting to feed it through into Lucille's arm. He felt sick, taking his time to make sure he wasn't messing up. There was a tremble to his hands as he finished depositing the blood into Lucille.

**"Feeling okay?"**

**"Yeah, do it again."**

“Keep in mind you’ve only got about a gallon of the stuff in you, so you know, don’t waste it all on a dumb dead girl,” England grumbled. He felt like he could sit up now and managed to do so, leaning heavily against the bed frame but finally upright again. 

France turned to snarl at England, standing up and storming over to his bedside. England’s eyes narrowed as he came closer, pulling himself up higher, tensing to block a strike, seeming to puff up like a cat with all his fur on end. 

“Don’t you dare speak of her in such a manner! It’s your fault entirely that we’re even in this predicament! Let’s pour the rest down your throat and see what happens when I light you up!” France yelled, jerking his finger right in England’s face. 

England pushed his hand away, or at least tried to, he had no force behind it. “Try it and see what happens, “ England hissed though he didn’t sound confident, and turned pale as he truly felt how weak he was. Couldn’t get up, couldn’t even stop France from yelling at him like a child. It was humiliating and frightening, feeling the helplessness of fresh fragile nerves. 

"Do I need to come over there and kill you both?!" Spain yelled over. "Because I'll fucking do it!" He turned back to Mateo, taking the second syringe of blood and injecting it into Lucille. At this rate, they weren't going to make it…

France pulled his hand back, his face still cold and angry as he glared down at England from his chilly height. “This isn’t over, England,” France said, voice gone soft and still compared to his earlier yelling. 

That quiet voice sent more shivers through England than the shouting, though he wanted to blame his regeneration for it, he knew it was because that was a far more dangerous timbre. He frowned and shoved down the trepidation, forced himself to grin and cross his arms and jut out his chin. Fake it until you make it. 

It didn’t impress France and he turned back without another word and returned to Lucille’s side, taking over holding the wounds as Mateo delivered yet another syringe-full of blood. 

After several more syringes, Mateo finally shook his head, exhausted and pale-looking in the wake of the blood transfer. Spain didn't expect any more from him and patted his shoulder supportively before turning to Lucille to deliver the final package of blood, but her chest no longer rose and fell, it was still, the room eerily quiet without her labored breaths. 

Spain bit his lip and looked away. 

Mateo took a look next, and he waited for Spain to release the belt around his arm before moving closer to Lucille. 

No…

After all of that… 

They were still unsuccessful… 

He suppressed a sound of anguish by pressing his lips tightly together, not daring to look at France. The country in question was still standing, watching as her heart stopped, her lungs stilled, and the moment it happened it seemed as if a heavy weight hit his shoulders and he slumped forward with a deep groaning sigh, grabbing his eyes and pinching at them with one hand. He cursed in French and quickly left the room, going out to the deck and leaving the three remaining countries behind. 

Spain felt their sadness too, it rolled off them in waves and permeated deep into the fabric of the room. He wasn't sure what to do. Did he follow France or stay to guard England? 

Mateo looked at him,  **"go make sure he doesn't throw himself overboard. I'll stay here."**

**"Thanks."**

Spain clapped him on the shoulder, standing and going after France, unsure of what to even say. When he approached the country all he could do was apologize. 

"I'm sorry… I honestly thought we'd save her…" 

“Don’t waste your breath. I know you’re happy it worked out this way, even if you’re not crass enough to admit it. You wouldn’t want to lose your first mate after all… How does it feel? Having a nation just pop up next to you like that? I’ve been trying for decades to figure it out and I feel no closer to understanding. Lucille was perfect. Not only for who she was but her potential. I really thought it was possible… To find and choose a partner and not have to settle for whatever random idiots become nations. I’m sick of brats like England, yet he’s known me the longest…” France trailed off, staring out onto the bright open water, his eyes squinted from the glare of the sun, from stale stuck tears. 

Spain stood beside him, "no, I… I'm not happy, because that fear of losing a first mate made me bend over backward to save him… I can't even begin to imagine what losing him would've felt like. When Lucille went after him, I was terrified." Spain also looked out over the water. "She asked me to kill her and I refused… But I feel like it's my fault that she's dead because I told her she'd have to do it herself… I had no idea she actually  _ would."  _

France chuckled sadly, not surprised even in his grief. “Yes, well, you should have seen what she did to get me to take her along. That woman, she certainly did not make false threats,” France’s smile dropped, pinched into a tight flat line. 

Spain also smiled sadly, "I really am sorry…" wishing at that moment he knew her outside the battlefield. "She was definitely a… formidable opponent. Did a number on all of us." 

“You should have heard her voice. She could sing so beautifully it would make angels weep,” France said unprompted, remembering some performance long ago. “She was beautiful, deadly, poised, and if you knew how to unlock her outer walls, she was so tender inside. When I invaded Andorra she was just a dirty teen made an orphan by my army and wanting revenge for it. She was so young, I told her to go with the rest of the refugees, to leave or I’d kill her on the spot. You know what she did then?” 

Spain shook his head, "go on." 

“This reckless, wild Andorran girl grabs the sword right from the hilt of one of my officers, the very man holding her! And she hits him in the neck before either of us realizes what’s happened. She starts swinging the blade wildly, totally untrained, mind you, but everyone was taken aback at her audacity and she actually managed to wound two more men before she was disarmed.” 

Spain smiled ruefully, "so she's always been a fighter…" 

“Like you wouldn’t believe. But what really made me fall for her, what really hit me hard, was right before the sword was taken from her she slashed at my horse, hit the front cinch, and spooked the beast. My mount took off and I went flying to the ground, saddle and everything, right in front of all my men,” France actually started to laugh lightly remembering the moment. “Never had I seen a mortal with such brazen balls, especially considering she wasn’t even a full grown woman!” France paused and looked thoughtful, still gazing blankly out over the ocean, mind in the past. “I saved her then, returned her home thinking some other villagers would take her in. But when my army left, she followed anyway. Followed me specifically. Eventually, I took her in from her sheer stubbornness. Even back then she would have starved following me rather than give up and go home. After that, I helped her, trained her, and when she came to me years later, I was her first,” France said quietly. 

Spain nodded, "you really fell for her?" 

France sighed deep and mournful. “Call me a romantic fool. It’s been centuries and I keep making the same mistake. Sleeping with mortals, loving them and losing them. Only, with her, I thought she might be able to change. Might be able to make her a nation and actually  _ be  _ together. I had the old Andorra at my house back then and we attempted to transfer his representation. Needless to say, it didn’t work. And now your first mate is going to live forever; a man who hasn’t set foot in his own damn country since he was a child. How many years has it been? Clearly, I understand nothing about the transfer of nationhood,” France said, bitter disappointment clearly audible, visible. 

Spain looked down to where the waves beat against the boat.

"Mateo… isn't the enemy here," he said, turning to look at France. "Granted, it was unsuccessful. But he did everything to try and save her… When England killed my crew, I felt each and every one of them die…" Spain said, leaning heavily on the rail as his chest ached. "And I think Mateo felt that for Lucille too… their connection was still growing, but they shared the same Andorran pride." 

Spain sighed, "I guess, what I'm trying to say is… remember my offer? About finding a co-principality for Andorra? My offer still stands." 

France smiled grimly. “I appreciate it, but it wouldn’t be the same if it’s not Lucille… Can I have some time alone? I- I just want to think for a while,” France said without looking at Spain, steadfastly fixing his gaze on the blinding horizon. 

"Of course," Spain pushed off the rail, "you know where we are if you change your mind." 

He headed back towards the cabin, going inside without barely opening the door. 

He saw Mateo on the floor, still leaning over Lucille's body, and England still in bed. He sat down in the desk chair, keeping himself to himself. 

England laid on the bed fuming. First Spain shot him, forcing him to go through a painful revival, then he came back and dared to ignore him? He reached behind the headboard to grab the dagger hidden there (realizing he should have done that when France had gotten in his face, why had he forgotten? Why had he frozen?), he raised it above his head without a word and flung it expertly across the cabin, slamming loudly into the wooden column directly past Spain’s face, letting the blade fly a hair's breadth from the tip of his nose without actually hitting him. 

Spain's eyes widened and he looked over at England. Gaze softening as he stood and approached him. 

"How are you feeling?" 

As soon as Spain started paying attention to him England crossed his arms and looked the other way. “You’re lucky I didn’t hit you in the skull. You know, the really shitty one to revive from? What the hell kind of alliance is this if that’s what we’re okay with doing to each other?” 

"I know… I'm sorry…" Spain looked down, hand resting on the bed beside England. "I… didn't want to, I panicked." 

“And then you let  _ France _ on my ship? And now he’s set our course and where the  _ fuck  _ are we even going? This is bullshit, Spain,” England spout off, feeling he was being generous not shooting him back. He was actually  _ trying _ . 

"I was… trying to help everyone… but instead I fucked up and for that I'm sorry…" he didn't bring up all the times he'd protected him from France since returning to the ship, knew that with his luck it'd get twisted against him. "I just… I'm trying." 

"Oh… W-well, so am I damn it! What am I supposed to do now?! Hug and kiss you and tell you everything is fine?" England pulled a disgusted face, lip curling back.

"I know you're trying…" Spain said, "and only if you want to. If you're going to kill yourself again then I'd rather not." 

England felt his face fall, he hadn't expected Spain to take him seriously, thought he would be cruel and fight back. But no, he meant it. And he remembered what had happened… It all made England flush horribly in embarrassment. Killing himself over a kiss, Spain taking him into consideration because of it… 

"Stop it," England said quietly, looking down at his lap, hands twisting in the sheets. 

Spain was confused. "Stop what?" Then it clicked, "caring about you? I'm afraid that ship has sailed, England."

“I still don’t get it… I…” England glanced over at Mateo cradling Lucille’s corpse and was momentarily grateful he hadn’t learned English yet. “Why would you want someone like me? I hurt you, I’m nasty, I’m constantly drinking and fighting - you included… And you still… You’ll understand if I don’t really trust what’s going on here…” England trailed off. 

Spain smiled wryly, "listen… this alliance, the fact you entered into it in the first place proves you do trust what's happening… but that doesn't mean you're not scared, and I can relate to that - I'm scared too. This is as new for me as it is for you. That's why we have to make it easier on ourselves and take each other into consideration. If there's something you don't want, then I don't want it either." Spain looked away, "and we don't always have the luxury of choosing who we want… a lot of the time it just happens. I mean, why would you want me? I pretend to be human, let my emotions run riot, I tried to save my mutinous crew and obeyed your every whim to protect humans who threw it back in my face… I'm an easy target as far as abusing power goes." 

England sighed, feeling himself soften. Something warming deep inside him. He grabbed Spain’s wrist and pulled him closer, so they were next to each other on the bed, and turned and rammed his head into his chest, bowing against him. 

“We’re always going to be targets. Humans, other nations, our own damn government - they all have reason to try and control us. That’s why… What we’re doing, our own personal alliance outside of all of that… It’s pretty radical,” England admitted. He knew nations married each other, had alliances and favorites, and fucked each other just like mortals. But it wasn’t real. They lived on such a different timeline that it was easier to see other beings as pawns rather than partners. 

England continued.

“I’m afraid it won’t last… It won’t mean anything… Why bother then? Isn’t it just less painful to do our own thing, fight and fuck when our paths cross and not define it further? I mean, I don’t even know what I’m doing right now! I have three foreign nations on my ship! I’m not in control of anything! I hear what you’re saying Spain, and it sounds nice and part of me wants to believe you… But a bigger louder meaner part is shouting at me that this is monumentally stupid and risky. Fuck. And now I’m talking to you about it! Going on and on, this is why… I, fuck. I hate this…” England concluded miserably. He had steadily thunked his head against Spain’s chest as he spoke, the final statement followed by his hardest headbutt, one actually meant to hurt, also accompanied by a fist aimed at Spain’s ribs. 

Spain grimaced and groaned, feeling the air leave his body in a rush when England punched him. He keeled over himself for a minute, gaining enough control of his voice to finally speak. "Then fuck the alliance… if you hate it so much,  _ fuck it."  _ He hissed. Moving from the bed and staggering towards the door. Desperately trying to ignore the ache in his chest as he rubbed at his sternum. He still couldn't draw a breath, but he wasn't sure if it was from the impact or from the fact fat tears were rolling steadily down his cheeks. He pushed against the door and disappeared onto the deck.

England felt a panic grip his chest when Spain heaved up off the bed, lurching away from him, leaving as quickly as he came and England was conflicted by all the competing thoughts at once: his confusion and his rejection. He thought he was being… vulnerable. Fuck Spain and his mercurial advances. He was going to be alone again for who knows how many years. He had to throw everyone in the brig, just to be safe. What was he going to do about  _ France _ ? He was still recovering from a head wound, damnnit! 

But above all of it was a howling of loss - yet again not good enough. Of course, he was leaving, just like that. Because he had opened up too much. 

England squeezed his eyes shut. Refused to cry. Without opening them or even looking in his direction he spoke to Mateo.

“ **Andorra. Give me the syringe. And the red leather pouch on the desk,** ” England said, sounding hollow. 

Mateo looked up, looking confused for a moment. But he was wary, instantly disliking of England's tone, distrusting of his words. 

**"Why?"**

**“I need it,”** England said without explanation, cracked a single eye open to look at Mateo still hunched over Lucille, pale and pinched. He smiled painfully.  **“I’ll even share some with you if you want. It numbs the pain.** ”

**"I don't… think that's a good idea,"** Mateo said, his guard returning. He stood, passing Lucille another glance, soft and sorrowful… he padded over to England.  **"You're hurting?"** Towering above him. 

“Yes,  **and so are you** .  **Trust me. You’re going to need it eventually. I can show you how to do it properly,”** England said, not sure why he was being so patient with this uptight upstart. But, he didn’t want to be alone with a corpse in his bedroom. 

Mateo shook his head,  **"Cap'n is hurting too."**

England’s patience ran out.  **“Yeah, well, he’s able to just walk out and do whatever he wants about it. I’m stuck here so can you please just fucking get my shit? You can do whatever you want too. Everyone on this ship does already,”** England shouted. Goddamn, why was he still sober?

**"Can you walk?"**

**“Not yet, no. I’m regrowing a whole-ass brain over here. Are you stupid?”** England barbed, couldn’t help it.

Mateo nodded,  **"maybe I am compared to you… but I don't let that stop me caring."** He rested his hand on England's knee.  **"The cap'n is still grieving, he lost his ship, his crew, and you're pushing him away too. When he gets overwhelmed, which is far easier than you might believe, he runs… always has. If you're serious about this alliance then you should meet him halfway instead of dragging your feet."**

“Sweet Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, fuck me -  **Andorra. Listen to some free advice. When another nation insults you to your face don’t fucking agree with it. Secondly, I wasn’t pushing him away; I was opening up to the prick, stupid of me I admit because as soon as he saw how terrible I really am he hightailed it out. Can’t blame him for that. Running is a great survival strategy. Worse is getting caught by the enemy when you’re immortal. They can torture you in all sorts of creative ways. Like I said, you might want to know about the pharmaceuticals available to you. Now, will you hand me my bag from the desk or not?** ” England barraged him in a wall of English-accented Spanish - his words were fluent but he didn’t try at all to make his pronunciation sound Spanish, clearly just using it to be understood, not enjoyed. After that tirade, he felt more like himself, enough to finally open both eyes and look up at Mateo hovering over him like an asymmetrical tower. 

Mateo was quiet, looking England up and down.  **While you were dead… the cap'n did everything. He carried you to safety and made sure none of us were left behind… he guided your men, he protected you from France, he kept the peace and worked hard to save Lucille,"** Mateo said softly,  **"what did you expect him to do when you told him you hated it? Opening up to him or not,** I hate it  **hurts anyone."**

England was shocked that Andorra had picked up on the conversation, that he knew about the alliance and even some specific phrases. He had ordered him to learn the language of course, but he hadn’t expected their conversation to be overheard. 

“I don’t hate  _ him _ , I hate how this makes me feel! Fuck… What am I doing? Why am I even trying? Why defend someone when they’re dead?” England said urgently before he slumped and fell back against the headboard, talking to himself, feeling everything falling apart. It was too complicated, he just didn’t want to think for a few hours. 

“ **Are you going to help me or not?** ” England asked bluntly, just looking down at his fists in his lap, clenching, and reclenching. 

**"Help yourself first…"** Mateo slipped back into Spanish,  **"tell him you don't hate him. Then I'll get your stuff."**

“Oh, good god, the fool actually is stupid…  **Andorra. I can’t fucking walk. Why do you think I’m even talking to you?** ” England said sourly. 

**"I'll go get him, idiota,"** Mateo spat. Standing up and leaving the room to look for Spain. He found him on the deck looking out to sea, grabbing his waist from behind, leaning over, and standing straight with Spain hoisted up over his shoulder, back against his body and lying awkwardly, looking up at his zenith. 

"Hey!" Spain's voice was wobbly as he was scooped up one-armed.

**"Hello,"** Mateo responded. 

**"What are you doing?"**

**"Carrying you like a sack of potatoes."**

**"I see that."**

Mateo hummed, walking back to the cabin with fast strides, he deposited Spain on the bed. 

**"Work out your differences,"** Mateo scowled. Grabbing a spare blanket from the bed and wrapping Lucille up, he struggled to carry her, but eventually, he left the room with her. He placed a plank of wood over the door to stop them from escaping.  **"Have fun."**

England at first glared at Spain when he was suddenly dropped on his bed, but then he shook his head and forcibly tried to soften his gaze. It hurt, felt so fake. He opted to cover his face with his hands instead. He left his mouth uncovered and tried to modulate his voice into something less off-putting than a growl. 

“Spain, I… I’m not going to apologize. You shot me in the fucking head. I have a right to be mad. But… We got off on the wrong foot. I- I don’t… “ England took a breath, lowered his hands from his face but kept his gaze down. “Look. I don’t hate you. I hate how this whole…” he flapped his hand around in the air vaguely, “I hate how it makes me feel. I hate how awkward I am. You have to put up with me harshly questioning it because I don’t trust it. Understand?” England finished. His voice had started out strained but as he kept going it had eventually mellowed and lowered. The final word was said gently, intimately. 

"I… understand. I think." Spain said honestly, shuffling closer to him until they were shoulder to shoulder, "but… I want this to be something you enjoy. Not causes anxiety or upset. And if you hate  _ it _ that much, then I don't want to force you to do it."

England huffed, irritated. 

“Look, I don’t know  _ how  _ to enjoy it, understand? I want to, I’m trying to, but I don’t know… Fuck. Spain… Please… I- I didn’t want you to leave when you did. I’m not ready for that. Whatever this is, I haven’t given up, no matter how much I may complain. So, just give me a fucking chance to catch up, okay?” England asked, trailing off. He still couldn’t look Spain in the eyes, afraid of what he would glean from him, he felt so raw.

Spain smiled, "okay, I'll let you catch up, slow-poke. And I'm sorry for leaving when I did… I just… I don't know, I got overwhelmed." 

“Yeah, well, I get it. But hey, fuck you, I’m not a slow-poke! I… I want you to do something to me…” England started off strong, trailed off like a lamb, once again curling in on himself. 

Spain looked at him, could feel his apprehension in the air. He reached between them and held England's hand. "What do you want?" 

“It’s so fucking stupid… You don’t have to humor me. But, it’s where I can start,” England blushed, felt like he might combust on the spot. “Can you… Can you just kiss me on my neck? Like… On top of me?” England said in a quiet shamed voice. It was both so pathetic and so vulnerable. He wanted to cave in on himself. What in the ever-loving shit was he thinking? Almost as soon as he said it he started breathing hard and suddenly tried to roll from the bed, not fully able to pull himself off. 

"I… Is that what you want?" Spain asked, seeing his sudden flighty behavior and wanting to make sure. "As in, lying on top of you and just… kissing your neck?"

“It’s stupid, it’s so stupid… I can just… suck your dick instead, or… I don’t know, I guess you could fuck me, don’t think I got everything back working, but, you know, even if I don’t feel it yet, it’s a tight hole…” England sputtered, his face blazing crimson.

Spain lifted himself up, swinging his leg over England's hips and sliding down over him so their bodies were flush together, he smiled. "No…" he whispered, nosing along his pulse point before pressing his lips against his skin ever so lightly, barely there at all. He lifted his head and looked at England, "good or bad?"

England felt his heart pounding, breath already coming in rapid rise and fall, Spain’s attentive lips touching against his neck, just a small brush of contact, sent a rush of adrenaline through England. It… How was it possible? It was nothing, but it felt so good, so different. He knew he’d experienced this before, with nations and mortals, but he’d never asked for it. Never built it up or talked about it or made allegiances or had feelings about it. He didn’t expect it to feel so different and it threw him for a loop. 

“Uhh, ummm, it’s good…” England said, still a bit shocked, heart still racing. He kept his gaze firmly up, not making eye contact. 

"Would you… like another?" 

England groaned and brought his hands over his face again. 

“Why are you asking me that? It’s… It’s embarrassing…” England said. “Just ravage me like usual.” 

Spain smiled, "anything you  _ don't  _ want, then?" 

England felt the sudden urge to cry. What the fuck was going on with him. 

“So many things…” England said in a crumbly voice. “Fuck, I - I didn’t mean that… I just… Fuck. Spain I can’t keep thinking about this! I just want you to kiss my neck and we’ll both see what happens, alright? You can’t hurt me and I’ll scratch you if you go too far. Good enough?”

"Okay… yeah," Spain said softly, ducking his head again and kissing under England's ear. Leaving a trail of fiery kisses down his neck and to his clavicle. 

England shuddered when Spain finally shut up and began to kiss and nibble along his neck, dipping lower, and as England had feared it felt like so much more than the drunken slime trails others had left on him with their wide reeking tongues. It was so much better than that, they weren’t even really comparable, and despite his annoyance and embarrassment England actually did feel more secure knowing he had a way out if it became too much, that Spain knew what this moment was about and wouldn’t try to go higher. At least with the kissing. It made the actions he did allow feel so much more delicious, intentional, precise, and loving. It felt like fire brands up and down his neck, made his heart race wild, his breath come in fast pants and despite such a small contact Spain’s lips actually drew a whimper from him. 

Spain heard the noise and was instantly spurred on, he looked at England, "is biting okay?" 

England couldn’t answer for a second, his mind still racing. He remembered something. But it was like a dream on the edge of waking, the shape of it just out of reach. 

“I… I think so. Like I said… You can’t hurt me, so… Go for it…” England said, daring to look down and catch Spain’s gaze. Fuck, that was a mistake. England suddenly jolted as he felt his junk fully recommit to his nervous system and wake up just from the look he met there. “Fuuuuck…. Spain… Oh, shit… Keep going….” England said, bringing his arms up to stroke over Spain’s back. 

Spain felt his face grow warm, moving back up to kiss under his ear again, this time he kissed and then lightly bit into his skin, suckling a small bruise there before moving back to just kisses, caressing his throat with his lips. Another bite against the hollow of his throat, this time he laved his tongue over the bite. He left another bruise on his collarbone. 

England sighed out heavily, panting harder and harder, soon each breath accompanied by a whine and his hips started gyrating ever so slightly. It was shocking how good it felt, startling and it took England completely by surprise. He wasn’t some fainting delicate rose either, he’d had all kinds of experience, but none of them, even the ones including neck kissing, they never felt like this. He felt drugged, each contact sending little pleasurable flicks down his center, each bite making him twist, but never too hard as to cringe, the sucking and drawing blood to the surface was hot, like an atoning brand, rather than a shameful mark. 

He wasn’t even that sensitive, or so he thought, but at that moment, with Spain making him see stars just by licking up his neck, England realized he’d just blindly charging through other encounters, usually at least brown-out drunk. He didn’t even know the last time he’d had sober sex, he knew he’d never discussed it beforehand like they had just moments prior, and some combination of that made Spain kissing his neck feel almost as good as sex. 

Spain latched onto his throat one last time, leaving a sizeable bruise before lowering himself further, he undid England's shirt and left a trail of kisses down his body, lowering his pants just enough to retrieve his cock, planting a wet kiss to the tip.

England bucked up at that, feeling completely untethered, his dick rock hard before he’d even touched it. 

“Y-you don’t have to… you know… You already humored me… you know, with the neck stuff... “ England trailed off breathlessly. Part of him was glad Spain moved it into firmly sexual territory. He felt close to some undefinable tears when the necking had gotten too intimate. He was more comfortable with this arena, mouths on dicks, but he still didn’t want Spain to feel obligated.

Spain met his eyes, his own looking hazy and unfocused. "I want to." He said firmly before putting an end to any fight England might've had by taking him down completely. 

"Ohhh, Spain, that feels nice," England bit at his lip, let himself flop his thighs open for better access. He rested his hands on Spain's head, fingers sinking into his thick soft curls, and caressed his thumb in small circles around each of his temples. Miraculously, despite having only been laying there being kissed for a few minutes, England already felt close. The quickness of it was humiliating but he couldn't help striving for it, trusting Spain wouldn't use it against him. The saturation of sensation was unmatched, he was helpless in the face of it.

"Spain, please, I'm about to…" England gasped. 

Spain bobbed his head, swallowing around his cock and, while suppressing his gag reflex, took England right to the back of his throat and his eyes watered, his tongue flat against the sensitive underside of his dick, and he licked with purpose, determined to make him come undone, no teasing, no taunting, just pure pleasure. 

England let out a hoarse shivery shout, thrusting his pelvis up into Spain's accommodating suction, feeling his throat work around his cock as he spasmed and released himself into the heat. 

"Jesus…. Bloody hell Spain… that was just… Wow," England finished breathlessly, feeling completely relaxed and warm on the covers, under Spain, melting happily beneath him. 

Spain mostly swallowed him down, licking his lips clean of what was left behind and he moaned softly, resting his head on England's thigh trying to catch his breath. He felt fuzzy and warm, just like he had in previous times, he desperately hoped there wouldn't be a disruption this time. He turned his head to suckle a bruise on the inside of England's thigh, taking his time to mark him up and kiss across the bruise. 

England squirmed and whined but didn't push Spain away. His fingers still sunk into Spain's hair twisted and his legs shifted restlessly as he felt the country suck marks into his inner thighs. 

"I- I suppose I can forgive you… for shooting me. If this is, ah! If this is the way you'll treat me when I come back around…" England sighed softly. 

Spain chuckled against his thigh, kissing his skin one last time before climbing up his body and settling against his chest.

"Thanks… for this. And for coming back…" England said, still blushing as he said it but at least he was able to wrap his arms around Spain, holding him close. It felt undeniably sweet, something England would have turned his nose up at not even a few days ago, but now it felt better being earned. 

Spain sighed contentedly, burying his head into the side of England's neck, the tip of his nose was cold against England's warm skin. His lips were pressed against where he'd previously marked, but they didn't move or kiss or anything, really. 

"Thank you for letting me come back," Spain whispered.

"How much do you want to bet something else will interrupt us again, now that we're ready to finally sleep?" England said with a chuckle. "We've been burning it on both ends since I started chasing your ship."

Spain hummed softly, "I'm willing to bet anything on those odds… how about a meal at an English tavern when we get there? Your treat." Spain smirked, realizing then that he was starving, hadn't had anything more than a morsel of food here and there since being taken by England. "I've eaten your dick more times than I have food in the last few days."

England laughed at that, genuinely amused by the observation. 

"That's true… You're just so good at it, though. Why waste such talent?" England smirked warmly, rubbing soothing swirls between Spain's shoulder blades. "But yeah, feel free to help yourself to my pantry. There are some supplies in the cabinet over there," England said motioning to the corner.

"I might take you up on that offer… later," Spain said, sinking into England's touch.

"Sounds good, love," England sighed happily, letting his eyes slide closed and let the exhaustion he'd been fighting against for days on end finally sweep through him. 

Spain fared no better, settling against England’s chest and closing his eyes.

\----

_ The sun was blinding as she stepped from the cave, rolling green hills contrasting against blue sky and she had to shade her eyes with her forearm, holding her skirt full of uncracked geodes.  _

**_“Wait up, Lucía!”_ ** __

_ She turned, seeing her siblings also emerging from the crevasse, all of their skirts hiked up, rocks concealed in the fabric.  _

_ She grinned and pulled tongues. “ _ **_Catch me if you can!”_ **

_ The quartet of sisters tumbled down the grassy hills, spooking sheep and making birds take flight. She remained firmly in the lead, her younger sisters simply not having the stride she did. They stopped at a small river, giggling as they deposited the geodes into a pile with a loud clatter of rocks. Lucía settled on her knees, picking up a rock and smashing it down against one of the bedrocks of the river. Again. Again. Again.  _

_ It broke into tens of pieces, scattering everywhere in shards of rock and purple gemstone.  _

**_“Amethyst!”_ ** _ One sister gasped.  _

**_“Wow…”_ **

**_“This… is going to change our lives.”_ **

_ \---- _

_ By trade, she was an entertainer, performing for the aristocrats, the rich, the poor, anyone and everyone who visited her parent’s inn. She could sing, she could dance, and as the fiddlers played, she began to sing clapping and stomping her feet as she leaped from the stage and onto a tabletop.  _

**_“We’ll meet again~”_ ** _ She sang, spinning, her skirt flowing around her legs, billowing out, pristine white against the darkness of the inn.  _ **_“So please don’t say goodbye~”_ **

_ With the help of two burly patrons, she was eased to the floor by outstretched arms, skipping around tables, as the diners and drinkers clapped in tune to the strings, percussion adding a strong beat to the story.  _

**_The past is just that, yesterday doesn’t stop me today.”_ ** _ She stomped across the tavern floor, swinging her arms animatedly. _ **_“The future is an adventure yet to be explored, a tapestry left to be sewn. And today is a defining moment in our lives~!”_ **

_ She looked to the left, seeing her parents watching, pride lighting up their faces as she sang and danced, dragging drunkards to dance with her, a thirteen year old girl commanding their respect through her innocence.  _

_ Soon there was a long line, all interlinked by their arms and haphazardly weaving between the tables. The song came to a close and she was lifted into the air with a squeal that broke into laughter.  _

**_“Stoooop!”_ ** _ She howled, being hoisted onto a man’s shoulder, having to duck her head to avoid hitting her head on the ceiling.  _

_ \---- _

_ Lucía walked down the corridor of the chateau, fists clenched at her sides and arms swinging confidently with every one of her steps. Her hips swayed, but she no longer wore a skirt, royal blue britches ending at the middle of her calves, white socks covering the rest of her legs and tan leather shoes adorned her usually bare feet. A white shirt was tucked into her britches, cravat itchy and tight around her throat. She despised it. She pulled the ribbon from her hair, letting it fall around her features in dark burgundy waves. _

_ Her sixteenth birthday, days after seeing her family massacred, and instead of dancing and celebrating she was here, thick into enemy territory. Confronted by two large, white and gold-lined ornate doors.  _

_ With a frown she forced open the doors to the great hall, stepping inside and leaving those inside staring at her. Pasty-skinned, white-haired aristocrats, pale eyes boring into her olive tones and dark eyes, unruly curls billowing around her features. She knew what they thought, she was exotic in their eyes, a commodity, a rarity. A possession of war. _

_ “Ah, Lucille!” Her head snapped to the side, seeing the man she’d dismounted from his horse days earlier, parting the crowd like the story of the red sea.  _

_ She scowled. That wasn't her name.  _

_ "My petite flower~" he said, taking her hand and kissing the back of her fingers.  _

_ She snatched her hand back, but he took hold of her again and pulled her flush against him. "Shall we dance?"  _

_ She lifted her leg, if there was one thing good about the britches she'd been forced into, it was this. Her leg wrapped around his, her face twisting into a snarl as she swept his legs out from under him, shoving against his chest and sending him backward onto the floor, embarrassing him in front of his court.  _

_ She heard the shocked gasps, the murmuring from the court ladies, the gentleman talking amongst themselves as two rushed to help the man up from the floor.  _

_ She was already different. Not granted the luxury of the dresses, the makeup, the extravagant hairstyles. Instead, she was dressed like a stablehand in rags a young lad would wear.  _

_ "Uncouth." Was one of the words she heard from a woman, and she met her eyes with a steely gaze, the painted beauty spot under the woman's eye filling her with anger. At least her beauty spot was real. She didn't need to pretend.  _

_ She snarled at the woman and she took a step back, hiding her face behind her paper fan.  _

_ She looked back to the man with long blond hair, now standing. He was smiling, entertained, no doubt by her.  _

_ " _ **_I don't dance with my enemy."_ **

_ \---- _

A light, previously snuffed out, rekindled. A sudden first breath, hazy eyes opening to look at an off-white blankness. Brows furrowed at the gentle sway of a vessel at sea coupled with a floating sensation, daring to move but finding skin impossibly tight, waxy and pallid cheeks growing rosy with life. 

It was almost suffocating, the heavy fabric crowding her and making it difficult to raise a hand and move it. She forced it away from her face and took a breath, it was stale, like sweat and seawater, previously muffled creaking indicating they were experiencing rough waves. The canvas hammock moved with her and she felt sick with the sensation. 

She reached for her head, pressing her palm against her forehead to ease the throbbing there. 

Her cheeks grew damp as her mind flitted back to the memories, so vivid and it reminded her of her goal. Revenge… somewhere she’d gotten lost along the way; distracted. She still felt warm, fever-stung skin littering her now uncovered forearms with gooseflesh, but there was something different now… it was bearable, practically unimportant compared to whatever it was she had to do next…

She swung her legs over the side of the hammock, slowly settling on her feet for the first time in, well, she didn’t know how long. 

She took a tentative step forward, the room spinning as she staggered towards the exit of the room, taking the stairs one at a time as she still held her head. She left the sleeping quarters, finding herself in the galley and looking around. Her eyes took a minute to focus on the new lighting, but she knew who she saw when she laid eyes on him. 

Reaching for a knife from the galley work surface, she gripped the handle tightly in her right hand. Revenge… 

France sat at a bench in the galley alone, sipping rum from a tin rather than wine from a fine glass, feeling sorry for himself, missing Lucille fiercely - so much so it ached. That’s when he saw her, or, a figment of her, a feverish desire fueling a hallucination, that and whatever shady nonsense had been used to ferment the rum. 

France shuddered and looked away quickly. It was too painful to acknowledge an illusion knowing the ghostly image of his dead lover would fade. “I think that’s enough rum for me,” France muttered, tilting and spilling his cup lazily on the ground of the galley. 

She stepped closer until she was only a few feet away, bringing her hand holding the knife back and over her head. 

“I’ve waited years for this.” 

France startled, looking back, eyes widening in shock as he realized she  _ wasn’t _ an illusion and she was just about to stab him. He fell backward off the bench with a scream, both terrified and delighted at once, and managed to avoid her first stab but was now on his back on the wet floor. 

She raised the knife again, snarling at him. “Your men killed my family; it’s time I returned the favor.” 

Her mind was hazy, but seeing the look in his eyes made her feel satisfied. Seeing his fear, his delight, reflected in his eyes made things just a little clearer. 

She sunk to her knees clutching the knife, a wobble to her lip and eyes damp all over again. 

“I can’t do it…” 

“Lucille… Y-you’re alive… That means…” France’s eyes widened and he scrambled to sit up, embracing Lucille and hugging her tightly. “Oh, my dear, you’ve done it! We’ve actually done it!” France shuddered and felt himself welling up. He wasn’t nearly as emotional as Spain or England, but this, after everything they had done, it felt like a miracle, like a prayer answered. It was worth shedding some tears over. 

She was silent as he held her, dropping the knife and eventually embracing him back, inhaling his scent and marveling at how it didn’t hurt to breathe anymore. 

France tilted his head against hers, brought his lips to her ear, whispered excitedly. 

“How does it feel to be a nation, Andorra?”

Lucille paused, going still in his arms, “I’m… Andorra? But what about Mateo?” 

“It’s uncommon but has happened before. A nation having two representatives that is. It’s possible if there are distinct cultural influences from separate sources. I believe you take after me, chèrie. Mateo after sunny Spain.” 

“I don’t… so, he’s alive, I’m alive, and we’re both Andorra… I don’t believe it…” She sat in his lap, staring vacantly at the wall.

“I’m still coming to terms with it myself, mi amor. Kiss me and make it real, won’t you?” France asked, looking up into her face with his blue eyes pleading. 

Lucille wasted no time in closing the distance between them, arms around his shoulders and lips against him, she closed her eyes and sank into him. 

Her lips were warm, wet, plush, and lush with life, tasting of sunlight reflected from a snowy peak, of dark valley shadows and geosmin, and France shuddered in appreciation, pressing his tongue in to taste her more deeply. He pulled back after a moment, breathless. 

“I can taste it… You’re no mortal. You get to live as long as you want now,” France said, eyes dancing and alight with excitement.

She looked into his eyes, smiling and gripping his cheeks in her hands, kissing him again. “With you?” 

“If that’s what you desire, yes, yes of course  _ mon coeur _ ! I would be honored to spend eternity at your side. I’ll protect you, I’ll love you, and I’ll always be there for you,” France said seriously, though his eyes were still smiling. 

She stroked a thumb over his cheek, “then I’d like that.” 

“How’s your wound? How do you feel? Tell me everything!” France gripped her, stroked his hand up and down her sides, appreciating her full hourglass curves. 

“I-- It feels fine… a little tight, but I haven’t really checked it properly…” 

“Allow me to help with that…” France said in a low syrupy voice, already unlacing the strings at her back. “Would you prefer somewhere more private?” France asked before pulling anything off.

She hummed, “let’s go somewhere more private.” 

France nodded and scooped her up, heading toward a small side room from the galley, used for storage. He set her on top of a box and closed to turn the door before coming back around and sinking to his knees again, now framed by Lucille’s soft strong thighs. 

“How would mademoiselle Andorra have me?” France asked lovingly, placing small kisses along her inner thigh. 

She bit her lip softly, feeling her cheeks flush just a little. She felt hypersensitive to his touch, and it was embarrassing, “I don’t mind,” she barely managed to keep her voice level, looking away.

“Then I shall use my mouth, if it pleases you,” France murmured, unlacing her pants and helping lift her hips as he shimmied them off. He continued to kiss and suck and nibble against her thighs, alternating between them and slowly working his way higher until he was in the deep groove connecting hip and thigh and her vulva was warm and earthy and right there. He slid his hand up, cupping her and applying general pressure first, warming her up, waking her up, preparing her body for what was to come. 

Lucille couldn’t fight the small noise that escaped her lips, it was so  _ much _ , her thighs trembled and she only grew wetter at his touch, biting her lip and worrying it. She gripped the top of the box to keep herself upright. 

France began to rub her, back and forth, from front to back. Sliding the loose luscious skin there, his thumb pressing up to find her clit, press and hold it from the side, using the hood to rub her gently, knew she couldn’t stand direction stimulation due to how sensitive she was. As his thumb rubbed, his fingers became wet, sliding with more ease. He teased against her entrance but didn’t press inside, just tickling there as he continued to lay down rows of kisses along her legs, her mound, her lower belly. He said he’d use his mouth, but not when. He wanted her red hot and begging for it before he sucked her. 

She moaned at the stimulation, everything from his mouth to his hand making her feel hotter as if she’d combust. One hand rested on his head, fingers tangling into his hair and she lightly tugged. “Fuck…” She hissed breathlessly, “Francis…” 

He crooked one finger inside, bending it back toward him, applying pressure to her sweet spot.  _ Come here _ , the motion said, and after she cried out and bucked her hips forward, he slid another finger in and repeated it, slowly pressing against it over and over in a firm steady rhythm. He didn’t delve too deep, didn’t try to jab his fingers in and out, just focused on working and massaging the most pleasurable connected spot inside of her.

She was so wet, could feel her muscles quivering around him, her voice leaking out in breathy moans and whimpers. Her clit was hard and dense against his thumb, jutting against it and flushed a deep glistening color, crumbling like brown sugar. He moved his thumb to sweep away a curl of hair and finally leaned in, let his mouth suck her in, tongue lathing over her clit, sliding wetly against it, squirming against the side of it, flickering back and forth, quickly matching his fingers still inside her to the same tempo. 

Lucille cried out, tugging his hair again as she tried to move her hips, with her other hand she held the box behind her and leaned back, rolling her hips. Breathless moans escaped her lips as she threw her head back, cursing him on a groan. Just like everything else, it was so much at once, overwhelming, but at the same not quite enough. 

“Please… more…” She shivered. 

France nodded and hummed, fixing his tongue to a point and circling her clit around and around, his finger no longer bending but sliding in and out, still angled up to hit against her with every thrust, but he was now finger fucking her, slid the third one in with ease. He was patient, he could keep this up for hours, for days. And now, for centuries. He groaned at the thought, lapping desperately, using his whole face, making a mess of himself, and focusing all his attention on her. 

She could feel the burning heat of her orgasm drawing nearer and she whimpered against him. "Yes, yes…!" She chanted, calling his name again as her toes began to curl and her body coiled tightly around her center, clenching around his fingers as her muscles tensed, she was so close…

France continued the exact same motions, just sped up, increased pressure, moaned against her as he did it, ushering her along. He could feel it coming, could feel the build and the energy gathering. He sucked her clit into his mouth, pulling on it hard while still circling it rapidly with his tongue, not letting up for a second. 

She cried out as she came, body jerking against him as she tipped over the edge, muscles twitching spasmodically and uncontrollably. Her body was still taut, not able to relax while he was still assaulting her sensitive spots. A string of expletives left her mouth as she teetered on the fine line between overstimulation and wanting more.

France stopped licking her, drew his fingers out, and just cupped her sex again with his whole hand, bookending the pleasure with the motion, giving her warm steady pressure until she came down. 

“So beautiful, and I get to do that forever now… How lucky am I?” France murmured, standing up to hug her with his free arm, pulling her in for a kiss still dewy with her own flavor. 

Lucille groaned softly against his lips, immediately parting her own to kiss him deeper. She didn't respond to the question, didn't know how to, her mind could barely formulate coherent thoughts before he'd so skillfully fucked her with his fingers and made her come undone on his tongue and now she only felt like an extension of pleasure, unable to think clearly, just basking in the residual pleasure he'd left behind. 

It was rare she wasn't in control, but this was one of those times she was grateful for it, not having to think or feel anything other than him. 

France pulled both arms around her, hugging her tightly. 

“And now, my lovely Andorra, we no longer need to rush you off somewhere to be cured. I no longer need to worry about you being killed in a fight. Between the two of us, we’re unstoppable. Why don’t we pay those fools a visit?” France asked wickedly, already he’d been formulating revenge when he thought Lucille was dead. Having her back made him ravenous for some sort of conquest. England definitely could count toward that. Spain was on the hook too.

Lucille smirked, still looking exhausted and she nodded, "I'd  _ looove  _ to knock Spain down a peg." She said dangerously. Staggering to her feet and fixing her pants. 

She hummed, "what did you have in mind?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DYK? In our universe, nations are sterile and can’t get pregnant/impregnate anyone. Also, a nation’s blood is compatible with one of their citizens no matter what their blood type. :3


	8. Cut Like a Knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spain and England have to pay the piper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last update of hellfire year 2020! Good riddance. Stay safe out there y’all. 

The first thing Spain became aware of was a body beneath him, he grunted softly, lifting his head and looking at England. He was still asleep, hadn't moved so much as an inch since they'd fallen under. Spain's hair was mussed, a bedhead from sleeping so soundly and for so long without interruption. He nestled back in against England, content and warm. 

England felt the shifting, felt himself dredging up from sleep, mouth opening with a yawn, humming happily and pulling his arms around Spain again. He cracked a single eye open and looked over to the window, already it was evening. They’d slept an entire night and most of the next day. His mouth was dry and pasty, he needed to pee, he wanted to stretch and spread out. But the coziness stopped any movement for anything else and England just cuddled in closer, nuzzling Spain’s neck and kissing there deeply, just with his lip, no suction or teeth, and smiled as he pulled away. Last night had been… amazing. 

Spain gasped softly, didn't think he was even awake yet. He mumbled a greeting, too quiet to be legible before snuggling back into England. Feeling a fluttering in his chest from his heart, he buried his head into the pillow beside England's. 

"How are you feeling?" He asked softly.

“I’m afraid if I name it, it’ll go away,” England murmured back, though he turned his head to smile at Spain opening his eyes and holding him even closer through his gaze. England waited for the panic, for the fear, but… For once, he was still. Calm. Safe. Even this close, even with Spain looking right at him, right into him. Those gold-green eyes meeting his sharp emerald, how they complimented each other, contained one another. 

England shuddered and looked away again. Even if he wasn’t freaking out, a major improvement, it was still a strong dose and he couldn’t handle such intimacy for long. “Looks like we missed most of the day… I wonder what the crew’s getting up to. It seems too quiet,” England said, finally realizing there was no shouting or music or chatter. Strange.

Spain also noticed the lack of noise but tried to keep England from spiraling into any sort of negativity. "Maybe they decided to….go to bed early?" He inwardly slapped himself for such a weak excuse. 

England turned to him again with an  _ are you daft _ ? look on his face but bit his tongue from saying anything. See? More improvement. 

“Alright, well, let’s go see what those layabouts are up to,” England said, finally letting go of Spain to stretch out all his limbs in satisfaction and finally sit up. He reached under the bed for the chamberpot and relieved himself there, knowing France was on deck somewhere and he didn’t want to give him any excuses. He set it back down and stood up talking to Spain without looking back. 

“Do me a favor and empty it out the window when you’re done, love,” England chuckled. Even if they were getting closer he would still make Spain do the dirty work. He went about the room preparing himself for the day with clothes and accessories and all the tat he loved to cover himself with. 

Spain scowled, but it lacked bite, "I'll try not to trip over you and spill it all down your clothes." He did as was asked. "Poor fish, being exposed to toxic waste like that." 

He put it back under the bed and sat down on the bed with a yawn and a stretch.

England was just checking himself in the small silver mirror hanging from a column, preening his freshly-washed face. He looked over at Spain on the bed, still in the shirt and pants, not moving for his other clothes or anything else. He sneered. 

“You going to stay like that all day or you going to wash up and make yourself presentable? You can use the pitcher and the basin over there. Can’t have everyone thinking you’re just some lowly prisoner,” England said with a sniff, heading toward the door to see what had entranced his men into such a calm quiet. 

Spain rolled his eyes, but he smiled anyway. "My hat was on France's ship." He said, standing and grabbing his jacket from where he'd just shucked it off the night before. He yawned again, fastening his boots and looking at England. "Happy now, princess?" 

England didn’t respond to the taunt but turned back to grin at Spain. “And remind me… Exactly how did it end up there? Oh yeah. I fucked it right off of you. And then I sank that fucker’s ship, ha!” England brightened brilliantly remembering that stroke of madness. He laughed and smiled at Spain, enjoying how he was complicit in the arson. “Since I lost your hat you can borrow one of mine. Just make sure you pick one that’s smaller than mine!” England offered, adding on the last condition hastily. 

"You  _ want _ me to dress finely?" Spain still found it hard to believe he was encouraging it. Crossing the room to look at the hats on offer anyway. 

“Of course, if you’re going to be at my side you need to look the part. I want everyone to see you at your best,” England said matter of factly, though he did send a hot look in Spain’s direction. He pushed the door and was surprised when it budged within the jamb but didn’t open, something solid blocking it from the outside. England frowned, not liking where this was headed. He walked over to the small window that looked out onto the deck and groaned lowly.

“Uh, hey Spain. We have a problem,” England said, already regretting sleeping so much. 

"Huh?" Spain put a hat on his head, similar to his original one, moving over to the window and peering through beside England. 

The scene was something out of Greek art, fabled orgies of old. Every man on the ship engaged in some form of carnal activity, with themselves, each other, some of them sucking, others jerking each other, some fucking full out on the deck, and in the center of it all, seemingly the eye of this strange sexual hurricane was Lucille and France. 

"What the ever-loving shit is that," Spain asked, knowing what he was seeing but not fully believing his eyes. "Please tell me I'm dreaming, or in a nightmare…" 

“That witch used some sort of curse on them. Look who’s back,” England said angrily motioning to the sole woman on the ship. 

He focused on the two in the center. "Isn't she supposed to be… y'know… dead?" His eyes met hers, and she smirked, turning to face France and saying something to him. "Definitely not dead." 

Fear lanced through him at that moment… if she was alive, then where was Mateo? 

They were walking towards the cabin now and Spain jumped back from the window. "Well, shit… what do we do?" He looked at England, then to the room, looking for anything that could be used as a weapon. 

England grabbed his dagger and handed it over to Spain. “Here, use this, I have my sword still. They know we’re ready for them so this isn’t going to be pretty…” 

Spain swallowed thickly, "at least we're awake for it…" he took the dagger and flipped the blade in his hand. The fact they were immortal did nothing to ease his nerves, only served to make things worse.

“They were waiting, love. Could have come in here at any time. They’re doing this on purpose, that damn France!” England said fiercely though he couldn’t deny he was afraid. When he burnt France’s ship the original plan had been to sail away from him, not bring him along. Now he had to pay the piper far sooner than he’d planned. The loss was still fresh… France wouldn’t be kind. England felt himself shiver. Nothing he could do about it now. “Try to stick together, protect each other’s back, if we can injure them we might stand a chance…” England said, not feeling confident. There was no backup to rely on, no one else was coming. 

The doorknob twisted, and Spain immediately moved in front of England. 

"I won't let him hurt you." 

After what felt like a lifetime, the door opened flung wide and Lucille swept into the room, knife pistol in hand, followed closely by France. She fingered the blade.

"Surprise~" 

“Have the two sleeping beauties finally woken up?” France asked tauntingly. He held a rifle loosely, smiled smoothly, and wasn’t worried at all, as if the fighting was already done and he was just here to collect. Didn’t even acknowledge that they both had blades drawn. 

England hated that smug expression he’d seen on France’s face so many times, always while looking in his direction. But he wasn’t a little country he could bully anymore, he wasn’t going to be taken prisoner on his own ship, not without drawing blood. Before France could say anything else England dodged around Spain’s protective form and leaped at France directly, his sword already swinging forward in an instant. He hoped to hit his gun hand before he could take the shot - he was sober, fully rested, fully healed and this was when he could move his fastest. 

Unfortunately, it wasn’t fast enough.

"England!" Spain called, moving forward but being blocked by Lucille. 

"Not so fast, Spain, we have unfinished business." She sauntered forward, making Spain have no choice but to move backward, and away from England. 

"Fuck…" He cursed, frowning as he lunged forward at her, dagger in hand. 

Lucille dodged like she'd predicted the attack, shoving Spain to the side and knocking him off balance. 

A loud bang split the room but England had already dropped to his knees in the middle of his charge and finished sliding in on his knees the rest of the way close to France, dodging the shot and swinging his sword at his boots instead. It was a glancing blow, wasn’t sure if it had even cut him, and the butt of the gun took England by surprise, crashing into his temple and sending him flying across the floor. He struggled to hoist himself up, leaning heavily on his forearm as he looked up at France, his vision was spotty, and he blinked rapidly to try and relieve the ache from the side of his face. It was a futile attempt at best. 

He twisted on the floor, onto his back to take on a defensive stance but his body wasn’t working and wasn't responding the way he wanted it to. 

A scream split the air, and his head snapped to the side, seeing Spain sprawled over the edge of the bedside, right hand stretched out to the headboard, impaled there by a dagger,  _ his  _ dagger. He felt sick at the sight, remembering how he’d done something similar, but this time it was different. Spain was laying on his front, his other arm trapped under his stomach. 

A bang had England turning back to France, “I’m your opponent, England.” 

Spain squirmed as he looked at his hand, attached to the bed by the dagger England had given him. He struggled to get his other hand out from under him, feeling pressure on his spine as Lucille lifted a leg, knee digging into his back. 

“I’m going to enjoy this~” She cooed, flipping her knife pistol and pressing the blade against his back, the tip of the blade cutting into his skin and she balanced her finger on the top of the handle. With teasing fingers she eased the knife deeper and widening the puncture wound, she swiftly dragged the knife down his back, slicing shallow and fast. 

Spain started to scream but bit it down. A second strike down his back, starting from his nape and ending below his shoulder blades, digging deeper this time. 

“Fuck!” He couldn’t stop the cry this time. 

She continued her assault cutting deep grooves into his back, his shirt ripped and bloodied, the bed starting to stain where the blood dribbled and oozed from his back. 

Another slice, a lattice across his lower back, a tingling in his legs now, he couldn’t tell if she’d struck a nerve or if he was losing blood flow to his legs, he lifted his hips, standing on his tiptoes in an attempt to alleviate some of the pressure there, some of the numbness. 

He waited for the next cut to come, but it didn’t. He exhaled shakily, almost sighing in relief, but he knew better than that. One punishment had stopped, but it would make way for more. 

“So ready, needy~” Lucille commented on how his hips were raised, she flipped the knife again, with one hand she ripped his pants down his trembling legs, rubbing the pommel of the knife handle down his crack, finding his hole and without warning or even a single attempt to prepare him, forced it inside. 

Spain screamed, thrashing against the bed as she kept pushing, the widest point of the handle less than gently pressing inside him. 

“No!” He cried, muscles tensing at the intrusion. 

“Would you prefer the blade?” Lucille asked lowly, ripping it from his body and letting him feel the cold metal against his hole. 

Spain’s eyes widened in horror and he craned his head back, tears rolling down his cheeks, “please, no…” 

_ “Please?  _ You want the blade?” 

“No!” The shout left England’s mouth before he even realized it, and he felt his blood run cold as he watched it disappear inside Spain. It was impossible from his position on the floor to know if she’d used the blade or not, but it gave him a second wind. A fresh frantic determination to beat France. To get to Spain.

He faced away from the scene, turning to France and slashing at him with his sword, the other nation backing off just enough for England to scramble to his feet. But he was quickly sent to his knees once again, a single bullet discharged into his leg. 

“Shit!” His sword skittered out of his grip and rolled to the side. France stepped over and placed a knee on his back as his wrists were tied behind him, he struggled regardless, twisting his hands as the rough rope grew tighter. Trying to buck and thrash, his bad leg leaving wide half-moon smears of blood, he even flung his head back trying to connect with France’s face. “No, no, no, goddamnit!” England strained out as he struggled.

“Ah, ah, ah,” France crooned, “if you keep fighting me, I’ll ask Lucille to pull the trigger.” England froze, whether it was the shock factor of the statement or genuine inability to fight in case they made good on the statement was lost on him as panic thrummed through his veins, beating even more loudly in his stillness. “That’s better.” 

Suddenly he was being lifted by the ropes, thrown gracelessly onto the opposite side of the bed as Spain, directly facing him as they were both bent over the edge. Spain’s face was blotchy, red, and twisted in agony as he grimaced, his eyes were wet, long eyelashes moist with saline and cheeks stained with salty streaks, his lips were pinched into a tight line, gurgling sounds escaping his lips with every less than gentle thrust of the knife. 

It sounded as if he was going to be sick. England was close enough to smell his breath, his sweat steeped in fear, and his belly flopped unpleasantly inside him. How could they do that to him? Just because he was a nation didn’t mean it hurt any less. 

England was cruelly reminded of his own position as his pants were pulled down with one hand. 

Spain’s eyes locked with England’s, seeing true fear for the first time in the stubborn captain’s features. Wide eyes constantly flitting between his own and the corner of his eyes to focus on France. Uncertain whether his concern was for him or himself. 

He closed his eyes as Lucille forced the knife into him again, desperate to hide the agony from England, but he failed. It was intolerable. He was being gutted. 

England watched in horror as Spain’s face dissolved in agony, breath coming in tight panicked pants, mouth quivering open, eyes wide yet his pupils reduced to pinpricks, he could see him jerk with Lucille’s movement, knew the only thing she held was that damnable knifegun and England still couldn’t accept the nightmare that was happening right in front of him. So consumed with horror and rage for what was being done to Spain, damn it, she was making him cry now too, he for once didn’t notice when France came behind him. 

He and Lucille were of the same mind and England also had to suffer a cruel dry penetration. Without even spit or a single touch to warm him up France put his dick against his tight hole and jerked his hips forward. England had nowhere to go, was crushed against the bed, and let out a short scream when France wrenched him open and sank in deep. This time he didn’t give England a chance, there was no soothing words or strokes, as soon as he got all the way in he was pulling out again and forcing him back in, a fast relentless rhythm that England knew was making him bleed. 

Spain’s stomach twisted violently with every thrust, lurching forward to try and lessen the penetration, but it was fruitless, Lucille created a different pace, matching his body so the knife went deeper instead, he was certain it’d gone up to the guard already. He grit his teeth, opening his eyes to focus on England, only growing more distressed by what he saw. He hiccuped a breath as he watched France and how he rammed inside England. 

His thoughts were racing, his own need for survival being thrown overboard by his guilt. 

He’d promised… He’d promised that he’d protect England from France. 

His mind lost focus,  _ couldn’t  _ focus, it was all too much, too painful, but the expression England wore hurt more. 

Without Lucille’s knee on his back, a hard thrust had him screaming, his back arching and in the process freeing his hand from under him. He gripped the bed sheets and rode out the pain, waiting for the pull of the handle leaving his body before moving his hand. But instead of reaching behind himself, instead of trying to land a frenzied hit on Lucille, his hand flew forward. His fingers wound into England’s hair and tugged, forcing him to focus on his face. Hoping to offer any sort of reprieve from what he was receiving. A distraction for himself as well. 

“Look at me…” He rasped out, breathing fast and shallow.

England whose shocked gaze had fallen to the sheets looked up at Spain’s touch, and he felt an incomprehensible sadness. How could he comfort him when Spain was the one clearly being hurt worse? Even being tortured he still contained enough compassion within him to offer a kind touch. For someone like him. Who had gotten them bent over in this position in the first place. 

England felt the tears streaming uncontrollably, some from the pain as the rape continued, some from the guilt and the despair. He held Spain’s eyes with his, both of them rhythmically jerking to someone else’s pace, and whimpered back to Spain. 

“M’ sorry… I’m so fucking sorry… This is my fault…” 

Spain scoffed, lowering his head to hide the way his face twisted with another harsh thrust. Once it’d passed, he looked at England again, “stop it… apologies don’t suit you…”

And with that England timed himself with France’s thrust and using his toes scrabbling against the floor for purchase, lurched himself forward in order to press his lips to Spain’s in a kiss. He didn’t know why he felt compelled to do it then, the timing couldn’t have been worse. Both of them literally being fucked over a bed by enemies. But, for some reason, that’s why England wanted it at that moment. It felt more familiar coated in fear and blood and loss; the only context in which he knew how to do it. Being thoroughly terrified and crying was the perfect time to kiss. It felt good, something to focus on besides the pain, they were both wet with tears and England marveled at how warm his lips were even then. 

Spain’s eyes widened in surprise, but he quickly latched onto the kiss, a distraction from the pain, his hand slipping from England’s hair and to his face, fingertips stroking his cheek in a way he hoped would be soothing. He was trembling, terrified by the situation, terrified for England, terrified for himself. Fresh tears rolled down his cheeks, using England’s lips as a way to ground himself. 

Lucille’s eyes focused on them, looking at France before smirking, she removed the bloody blade from inside Spain, gripping it tightly as she brought the tip to his nape. If there was one way to break England, make him fearful of the fledgling intimacy he was creating, it was this, and she pulled the trigger on her knife pistol, point-blank at the back of Spain’s head. 

The nation fell limp against the bed with a bang. 

England had his eyes closed so he felt and heard the shot rather than saw it, a bang - far too close his ears rang, Spain jerking nearly simultaneously - lips slack, mouth open, a wet gurgle noise; he opened his eyes in shock looking up to see Lucille’s murderous grin, her arm extended and pointing down at them, finally he saw the bloody knife in her hand, its attached gun, and he looked back down to Spain. He was still facing him, but now his head tilted lifeless to the side, eyes glassy and unfocused, a deep dark red pooling under his throat. England didn’t need to see the exit wound to know what happened. 

“S-Spain… No…” England gasped, suddenly surging against his bonds with righteous fury, kicking back against France, trying to move forward to get her, bite her, something. He screamed inarticulate, twisting furiously on the bed, nearly dislodging France from how wild and uncontrollable his struggles were.

France grabbed him by the nape and slammed him down, thrusting in deep and pinning him against the bed to still his movements but England wouldn’t submit. Even tied down, held down, panting with exertion and shakes, he kept it up and kept yelling curses and insults and didn’t even care about hurting himself. In fact, it didn’t hurt at all anymore; he was so angry, so outraged it blotted out everything else. He continued to fight knowing it was useless but unable to stop nonetheless. Spain deserved better than dying like that. Being used like that. 

Lucille watched with a satisfied twist of her lips, rounding the bed, her fingertips grazing the bedspread as she approached France, she stroked along his shoulders, sitting down beside England, one leg dangling over the side and the other curled up under her. 

She gripped Spain’s wrist roughly, the backs of his fingers caressing England’s face before she used it to slap him across his cheek. 

“Mind if I join?” She asked, looking between England and France with a quirk of her brow. 

Spain’s dead hand slapping him broke the spell. Brought his attention back to Spain’s murky green eyes, and when Lucille casually mentioned involving herself, all the fight in him took flight, leaving him bare and numb and afraid. What else could she possibly do to him? England moaned and buried his face in the sheets. Just let them get it over with, whatever they wanted to do.

“England,” Lucille spoke, her tone harsh, gripping his hair to jerk his head back up “clean my weapon.” She gripped his bottom lip between finger and thumb, forcing his lips apart and pressing the handle of the knife to his mouth. 

Even in his numbed out state England felt a fresh stab of agony, the blood, and the streaks on the handle belonged to Spain. He shook his head, just a tiny denial. “No, please… I’m sorry… Please…” 

“Oh,  _ love,”  _ she said in mock comfort, “don’t apologize--” her tone turned biting “--I have ways of  _ making  _ you.” She gripped his jaw, fingers, and thumb digging into his face, she kept pressing, hard enough to bruise, forcing his lips into a pucker and slipping the weapon past them. She looked at France, nodding for a hard thrust, she was going to use England’s scream as an entry. 

France had slowed down and been maintaining shallow thrusts since England had calmed down but at Lucille’s heated glance he smirked and held his hips and slammed in all the way, making sure to spread his ass as he did it to get even deeper. 

England couldn’t hold back his surprised gasp and with the pressure already on his jaw, his mouth popped open and he could see the cruel delight in Lucille’s eyes as she pushed the warm smooth wood into his mouth, twisting it around before pushing in deeper. It clacked painfully against his teeth, jaw aching to accommodate it, and he started to drool around the huge hard thing in his mouth.

Lucille watched him, smirking. 

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She cooed, finally letting go of his face harshly, and returning her grip to his hair. 

She heard glass shatter, a bang sounding simultaneous, not even a few seconds later France grunted, and she looked up from England to see him gripping his shoulder, her eyes being drawn to a figure by the broken window at the front of the cabin. 

The door was forced open and she gawked at the one-armed man in the doorway, how? 

She’d made sure to take care of him first, giving him enough of the Andorran spice to leave a horse immobile. She snarled and moved to stand. But Mateo was faster; the rifle discharged in his arm and a bullet embedded itself in Lucille’s clavicle. Sending her staggering backward with a groan, reaching for the gunshot wound and glancing at France. 

France glared and panted, blood streaming down his arm. 

“See,  chérie , I told you it wouldn’t be so easy to take it out from under him… There’s always rats skulking about these English ships…” France sneered, pulling his pistol out to return fire. 

Mateo didn’t give him a chance, confident in his abilities, he shot at his hand, aiming for the pistol and knocking it from his grasp. 

Lucille charged at him while he was focused on France, knife pistol in hand and she drove the weapon into Mateo’s back. He hissed, but only seemed to grow in size as he towered over her, his head turned, jerked to look at her and he drove the rifle barrel into her stomach, winding her and sending her to her knees. 

He turned to France. 

**“You want her? Come and get her.”** And he dropped the rifle, picked her up, and ran from the room, hoping he’d follow. 

“Lucille!” France shouted, still hunched over his ruined hand, struggling back up to run after them out the door. 

Mateo sped up when he saw France giving chase, down into the hold, and then further down into the brig. He put Lucille down and pushed her behind the bars, she instantly fell to the floor again, a cough escaping her followed by a gasp. 

France was charging after him, carrying his bloody pistol left-handed, stomping down the stairs to the brig and stopping short when he saw Lucille behind bars. He raised the gun holding it level with Mateo.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He hissed.

Mateo didn’t understand his words, but he didn’t have to, he acted quickly, ducking out of France’s firing line and lowering his center of gravity, tackling him. He twisted them in a deadly spin, pushing France into the bars. He punched him, hand connecting to his cheekbone, and while he was dazed grabbed his coat and threw him in beside Lucille, slamming the door and locking it. His pistol dropped on the floor at some point during the scuffle.

France shook his head, trying to slow the dizziness from the blow to his head, and then turned to cradle Lucille, drawing her up against him so she wasn’t on the floor. He glared at Mateo.

“ _ This isn’t over Andorra. Don’t think for a second just because we’re in here that you’ve won, _ ” France said in a low growl.

Mateo looked at him,  **“I think it is over.”** He said with a level tone, heading back up to the deck. But he definitely felt France’s words, wouldn’t lower his guard. 

He went back to England’s quarters, seeing the carnage and immediately closing the door to protect what dignity they had left. He sat beside England already working the ropes from  England’s wrists.

England could say nothing, do nothing, the numbness from the rape hadn’t left and even after Mateo sliced the rope from his arms, wrists an angry red, skinned off from the useless fighting he did against them, he still didn’t move. His arms at his side, knees bent and hips hanging limp off the bed, ass still in the air. He just looked at Spain still lying there, eyes and mouth open in shock, death still had its hold over him. Who knew how long it would take him to come back… England was silent and watched as Mateo pulled the knife from Spain’s palm, the limb flopping dead against the pillow, yet more blood. The bed was sopping with it. Still, England didn’t move. Couldn’t feel. Wasn’t angry anymore, not sad, not grateful. Just eerily blank. 

Mateo watched him for a moment before resting his hand on his shoulder, "…sheets?" He asked in English.

England flinched slightly when his hand touched him. He wasn’t afraid, just an automatic response. He blinked and tried to process the question. Sheets. Right. 

“There’s-” England stopped, his voice sounded horrific. He cleared his throat, swallowed. Tried again. “There should be some, uh, sheets in the…” England trailed off. His brain wasn’t working, his mouth no better. Took a breath and moved one arm to point. “Bottom drawer,” he finally said. 

He was so out of it that it was a moment later before he realized Mateo had asked in English. 

Mateo stood, walking over to the bottom drawer and getting some sheets. Heading back over to the bed. 

"Stand..." He said softly, no command in his voice as he held his hand out to make the task easier for England.

He should have denied the help, should have insulted him for even offering, but his usual salty stubbornness had vanished. He took the offered hand and stood up, nodding once he was back on his feet. He felt like he was floating, shook his head, and used Mateo to help hobble around the bed to Spain’s side. He carefully rolled him onto his back, shuddered at the sight of the exit wound revealed, red and gnarly, the white of his trachea clearly visible. England took his cravat off and wound it around the grisly injury. It would do nothing to help him heal, but it did help preserve some dignity for him. He closed his eyes, closed his mouth, and arranged him to be more comfortable. 

He looked back at Mateo, standing there with fresh sheets in his hands, and England scooped up Spain and sank to the ground next to the bed, cradling him but going no further. His knee was finally starting to hurt again. 

Mateo watched him, he'd picked up some English from listening to his men, wandering around the deck when they were merry and watching them prepare their beds and hammocks, inviting him into their sleeping quarters and welcoming him. 

But that was as far as his English went. Spain nor England had had any time to teach him… 

**"You've… changed."** He said softly, gaze lingering on the soft touches to Spain where once there was nothing but brutality.

England wasn't sure what to say to that. It certainly seemed that way. 

" **Question is… do I want to,** " England replied. He was so exhausted. He couldn't think. Couldn't argue. 

Mateo smiled sadly, beginning to change the bedsheets as best as he could with only one arm.  **"Change is sometimes a good thing."**

England watched as Mateo began stripping the bed, pooling all the blood, and smeared-off cum sheets in a pile, from however long it had been. They were filthy at this point. 

**"Is it good when it leaves you defenseless? Andorra… your counterpart fucked Spain with her knife,"** England said quietly, not to taunt him, but he was actually still horrified and shocked by it, felt the need to warn Andorra.

Mateo stopped, looking at England.  **"What?"** He looked to Spain next. He felt a silent rage invading his senses.  _ This  _ was what nations did? 

He scowled.  **"They're in the brig now. They won't do anything."**

**"They will though. I burned France's flagship, the bitch is immortal, they are coming back for more. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but…"** England trailed off not needing to say more. It was a long treacherous game they played, made his alliance with Spain feel all the more precious, all the more tenuous. 

Mateo finished changing the bed, thinking about them as he placed the final pillow onto the bed before muttering,  **"I'll kill them…"**

He was seeing red, he wasn't sure what had been going on between Spain and England, but he wasn't blind to the change in dynamic, they weren't very good at hiding it, and if England was now important to Spain, then the fact that France and Lucille had killed Spain, and hurt England made him… angry.  _ Really _ angry. 

**"That's the problem. You can't. Not without a lot of trouble. Just… leave them. I can't deal with them right now,"** England said wearily. He didn't know what to do, just sat cradling Spain's heavy unresponsive body. Figured he'd stay right there until he woke up. His men were useless until the plant was out of their system, the danger contained, what else was there to do except wait for Spain to come back?

Mateo nodded, accepting the futility for now. 

**"Get his wounds dressed then get him in the bed?"** He asked. 

“ **I’d appreciate some help,** yeah,” England said, motioning vaguely to his busted knee. Crooked a small smile as he looked at Mateo. “ **Between us, we got three arms and three legs. I’m sure we can manage,** ” England gave a short humorless laugh. 

Mateo laughed too. Grabbing some fresh bandages, he kneeled beside England.  **"I'll do your leg too."** He said, beginning to wind bandages around Spain's hand.

England watched quietly, slowly coming back to his body. Everything that had been numb was starting to ache. He didn’t want to feel it. Knew what was coming. He kept his mouth shut until Mateo finished bandaging them both, he helped lift Spain into his bed, and then he sat down next to him. He fingered the ragged edges of his ruined shirt, cut into strips along with his back thanks to Lucille; Spain would undoubtedly appreciate a fresh shirt. Without using words he nodded at a wardrobe and grunted in approval when Mateo held up a plain white shirt. Together they carefully removed the rags from Spain’s torso, England took time to spread an herbal skin salve into the deepest wounds before helping him into the fresh shirt. Once Spain was finally laid down to rest, England looked at Mateo standing over the bed. 

**“Could you do me a favor before you go? Fill up this flagon with rum from the hold? I can keep watch over him until he comes around,** ” England said lightly, trying not to put any emphasis on how much he desperately needed it. 

Mateo nodded, heading to the hold and filling the flagon, he listened for any sounds from the brig, but there weren't any. So he popped his head down to check they were still there, they were. After he made his way back to England he handed him the flagon. 

**"Do you want me to stay?"**

England took the flagon, hand trembling ever so slightly.    
  
“No, that’s okay.  **You can make yourself comfortable anywhere. There are empty hammocks below,** ” England said, already opening the flagon and bringing it to his lips. The rum felt warm and forgetful, just what he wanted. 

Mateo nodded,  **"please look after him."** And he took his leave, leaving the room and standing on the deck, looking around at the petering out orgy. He didn't want to deal with that mess, so he went below deck, and rested on a hammock, not lying down, not succumbing to the ache in his body and heart. Just… sitting there and guarding the brig.

England heard Mateo’s request and was of course going to fulfill it. He could watch Spain recover while getting completely blackout himself. No problem. He sat in the bed and sipped the rum, already feeling it spreading fast through his empty stomach. No need to hold back. He wasn’t going to interact with anyone until Spain woke up. To that end… 

England swung himself up to his feet, using the bedpost to stabilize him enough to limp over to the door and throw the lock. Before he went back to the bed he made the short journey to his desk to grab the red leather pouch and the pewter syringe - still bloody from Andorra’s nation blood. He wondered if he regretted sharing it with her. She probably would be mortal and dead if they’d left her alone as he suggested. Too late now. 

Getting fucked and fucked over meant double the medicine. He took another swig of rum, could feel it steadily climbing to his head, and sat heavily on the bed, opening up his pouch and pulling out the brown glass bottle of morphine. 

\----

It was dark, heavy. He’d felt this before. Like a blanket, swaddled and wrapped around him. It covered every inch of his body, even his face, making it impossible to open his eyes. It was hot and sweaty, his breathing was made difficult by the humid air. It was death. 

The smell of blood and gunpowder and rum invaded his awakening senses. The taste of copper was disgustingly stale in his mouth. Where there was once numbness, his throat now hurt unbelievably, his hand too, as did his back and especially his ass... He already had a headache. 

He thrashed his legs, his arms, desperate for a breath of fresh air, to open his eyes. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he found an edge of the blanket, he grabbed it between his fingers, and pulled at it, his hearing finally returning to hone in on an unfamiliar sound. Crying. He threw the sheet to the floor, consumed by the chill of life instead of death’s warm embrace… 

He opened his eyes, everything was blurry, he blinked, moving his head to the side and having pain rip through his neck, his vision swam. He groaned and reached up for his throat, eyes refocusing on England… crying. 

That’s right… He’d been… He’d been… Shit…

He closed his eyes again, reaching blindly for England, grasping his knee and squeezing gently.

He couldn’t find his voice, throat still healing, still hurting, still raw. But he opened his eyes again, looking at him through the corners of his eyes, thumb lightly grazing along England’s knee. 

England looked back down to the bedsheets, his vision swimming with tears and his hands shaking as he tried to stab the needle into the bottle of morphine. He kept missing the cork on the top, confused why it was so difficult, why he was still in pain, why his breath came in reedy whines and his limbs itched unceasingly. This usually worked… When he really needed to numb the pain, but for some reason, even after two doses, his ass was still burning and his thoughts still connecting. He wanted silence, he wanted numbness - and his usual medicine wasn’t working right. 

“Fuck!” England burst out, missing the cork yet again and stabbing his finger instead. He pulled his hand back and stared at the growing red bead on his fingertip, mesmerized by it instead of wiping it away. He watched as it grew larger and larger, a trembling drop trying to hold its shape, until after a second it lost surface tension and slid down his finger, changing into a thin red stream. England stared and shook and felt another sob pull through him. Why wasn’t it working? 

He took a shuddering breath and picked up the syringe to try again when he suddenly felt a small curling motion against his leg and glanced down to see Spain awake. He gripped the syringe tighter, tried to hide it in his palm, swiping at his eyes though the movement was slow. He forgot about the fresh blood on his hand, streaked it across his face as he wiped his tears. 

“H-hey… Spain…” England said slowly, his voice low from crying. He didn’t want him to see him like this. He should have already passed out by now usually…

Spain couldn’t speak, still couldn’t do a lot of things, so instead, he stared, stroking his leg soothingly with his thumb. He hadn’t expected to see England crying, and for a moment he wondered  _ why _ he was crying. Spain tried to swallow around the lump of sombreness in his throat, grimacing and his other hand coming up to cradle his neck. But in response to England’s greeting, he tightened his grip on his knee and smiled a sad, little half-smile. 

England coughed. Looked away. Knew his eyes most look like over-colored pinpoints. He didn’t want to do this right now, he just wanted the blanked out bliss he usually got from the stuff. 

“How… How do you feel?” England asked, focusing on keeping the tremor out of the question. 

Spain met his eyes, running his fingers along his throat and he looked at the bottle in England’s hands, staring at it, met his eyes again with a look of question; his brows quirked. 

England remembered where he’d been shot. Through the spine, back of the neck. His voicebox was most likely still shattered. Fuck, he was dumb. He scratched at his arm, felt his heart rev unnecessarily, he was getting all the symptoms and none of the relief. He wished Spain was still passed out, then he could keep trying. But he didn’t want to pull the syringe out and use right in front of him. He was ashamed of it, for needing it, especially when it wasn’t even working. Should have just stuck to rum… 

Instead of interacting with Spain he grabbed the flagon by the bedside and brought it to his lips. It was already half gone, usually, he wouldn’t need more but his morphine was a dud. He took a long deep swing, leaning into the burn. 

Spain rolled onto his side, facing England and resting his forehead against his thigh, he closed his eyes and tried to settle himself. He felt restless, upset now the memories of the night before were returning. He wrapped his arm around England's legs, suppressing a sniffle. 

Great. Now his throat  _ really  _ hurt.

England paused in his chugging to look down at Spain curled over his thigh, resting his head there. He didn’t know when it’d happened - when touch between them became so familiar, so easy, but it felt nice. England set the flagon back down and rested his hand on Spain’s head, slowly scratching him and sinking his fingers through his hair. 

“What a pair of losers we are. Getting bent like that,” England said, before immediately regretting it. Just because he blamed himself and expected this outcome between him and France didn’t mean Spain saw it coming. Didn’t mean self-deprecation would be appreciated. His mind felt slow and racing at the same time, the effects of opiates and alcohol battling for supremacy in his brain. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m the loser, not you. You just got caught up in my shit… This is one of the reasons why I wasn’t too sure about this alliance,” England slurred. 

Spain ran his hand along England's leg in what he hoped would be a soothing gesture, listening to him. Some days ago he would've bit back at the insult. But now he didn't appreciate England speaking so lowly of himself. He gently kissed him through his pants, a ghost of a touch that was barely there, then he bit him. As if to say  _ stop it.  _

England let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding when he felt the light nip. 

“I’m sorry… I- I couldn’t do anything… On my own ship. And then you- Fuck. Forget it. You need this more than me,” England said, shuddering as he remembered the blade against Spain’s backside. He decided he would trust Spain, or, just deal with whatever his reaction might be instead of hiding it. He uncurled his fist from around the syringe and held it out in front of Spain’s face. 

“I uh, have this for the pain. Y-you know… If you need it… For your ass,” England stuttered. Fuck he was nervous, heart racing, breathing picking up and slowing down in palpitating bursts. 

Spain didn't move, didn't do anything, really. Finally, he shook his head, refusing any help from the drug. 

He opened his mouth, the slightest rasp escaping from his throat. "It's… okay…" he managed, his face twisting in agony and he tensed around the words. He wished he could say more, tell England he wasn't angry, or upset, or disappointed. But he couldn't. It hurt too much to even mutter the two words he had managed, felt like he was swallowing hot glass. So instead he went back to stroking his leg, lightly squeezing and tapping him gently, supportively. 

England rubbed his head, relieved he wasn’t upset about the injection. Still wanted it in his veins though. If Spain wasn’t mad then there wasn’t an issue. He picked up the bottle and attempted to pierce the top again, finally hitting true and grateful he managed to do so when Spain was watching on. He pulled the plunger up, watched as the clear substance was drawn into the syringe. He didn’t bother to check the dose, he’d done it enough by this point to know, had even notched a tiny line on the syringe to show where to fill. He hit the mark and then took it a bit over the line. If it wasn’t working maybe he needed a larger dose. 

He took the belt he’d been using and tightened it around his bicep, using his teeth to pull it tight while he cinched it in place. He pushed his sleeve up, forgetting that he already had injection marks there, and glanced at Spain, trying to move his arm away so he couldn’t see he’d already been dosed twice. His vein bulged at the crook of his elbow and he took up the syringe, held the needle at a shallow angle, and carefully brought it to his throbbing skin. 

It was already too late to hide the small puncture marks from the needle, Spain had already seen them. So when he saw England go to inject again, his heart leaped from his throat and his hand reacted before he could think rationally. He reached forward and swatted the pewter syringe from England's hand with enough force to send it flying across the room and rolling onto the floor.

England startled from the sudden swipe, losing the syringe and his concentration. He wanted to yell at Spain, to glare and slap and argue, but he held himself back and instead sighed deeply through his nose. 

“Spain… Please… I need it,” England said, trying to meet him in the middle. “It’s… to help with the pain…" England breathed hard, grabbing the blankets, bunching them in his fist. Why wasn't it working? Why was he… still feeling anything?

Spain shook his head, struggling to sit up and taking his hand, framing his bandaged hand over England's. "England…" his voice cracked and he grit his teeth to bear with the pain. 

England winced, could hear the blood bubbling in his throat, knew how much it hurt to strain freshly strung vocal cords. 

"Don't say anything… I get it… I just hate feeling like this…" England said. He leaned over, hunched into his lap, covering his face.

Spain's gaze softened, and he rubbed England's back slowly, soothingly. He rested his forehead against his shoulder. His throat was raw, he just wanted it to be healed already, wanted to offer words of comfort, not just… whatever he was doing now.

"Usually… just one dose and I don't feel it anymore. I don't know… Why I'm so…" England didn't know how to finish the sentence - weak, pathetic, broken - so he just trailed off, curling in closer around himself. He felt Spain's hand on his back, appreciated it, he didn't feel so alone with the reassuring weight. 

"It's… okay…" Spain muttered, and he cleared his throat with a small cough, grimacing. "You're… okay…" He kept his hand on England's back, rubbing gently. 

England winced, could hear the pain of trying to speak. 

“Don’t speak… I can, uh… I have a slate somewhere around here,” England said, lurching off the bed, his coordination off balance. Why was he getting all the side effects and none of the relief? He lurched over to his desk and rifled through a bottom drawer, emerging with a slate tablet, and after another second of looking, a stick of chalk for him to use. He came back to the bed and handed the items to Spain. 

“Here, use this instead. Until you’re healed,” England said before he glanced at the syringe on the floor and stepped over to it, and retrieved it. He came back to the bed and clambered on, sighing as he leaned against the headboard, leaned against Spain. 

Spain rested his head on England's, quickly scribbling,  _ 'give me the needle'.  _ He held out his hand. 

England trembled, gripped it tighter. 

“I- I’ll share it with you. You need it, just as much as me. You got stabbed… there…” England couldn’t say it, a shudder running through him from the mere memory of seeing a blade disappear into Spain’s body. Even if he healed physically quickly, the trauma of such an act still lingered. He would want to forget, and if he could get Spain to have some then he could take another dose as well. Or so England thought. 

Spain looked at him, unimpressed, shoving the slate in his line of view. 

_ Give me the needle.  _

England groaned in irritation, bringing his fists to his face, still clutching the syringe as he rubbed his knuckles over his eyes. He didn’t know what to do. In the past, he would have said no, insulted Spain, tied him to the bed, and shot up right in his face; maybe given him a dose of the stuff just because he didn’t want it. But now… with their alliance, not only was he not going to do that, but he also felt a damnable obligation to Spain. Like, he actually should listen to him. Despite the itchiness running through his arms, nausea, his heart racing, and slowing uncomfortably. If he could have just a little more… He’d get the euphoric numbness he craved. But Spain… 

He couldn’t hand it over, but he couldn’t use it either, not yet. 

“Look, if you want to suffer through it, be my guest. But I’ve been fucked over by him so many times I fucking deserve this, got it?” England said, more harshly than he felt, he was just desperate for a fix. Would say anything to get it at this point.

Spain looked at him, hoping he was misunderstanding what England had said, but knowing England wouldn't leave room for misinterpretation. He scrubbed at the writing on the slate tablet, thinking for a moment before writing,  _ 'I don't think you should do another dose.'  _ He waited for England to finish reading before wiping the chalk away and writing another sentence,  _ 'if the other two haven't worked, why would a third?'  _ Spain reached up and pressed his hand against England's chest, feeling his racing heart and looking at his pale face, sickly and washed out. Then he added,  _ 'I'm worried.'  _

England let out a shaky breath. Goddamn. If this is what it felt like, having someone caring about him, worrying over him, he wasn’t sure he wanted that level of scrutiny. That level of care. Someone paying such close attention to him. He felt the contradictory urge to hand the syringe over, surrender to the attentive logic, and at the same time, he wanted to shove Spain away, stab the rest of the bottle into his vein, overdose a goal rather than a warning. 

“Why? I can’t die from this… I’ll just pass out for a while. I- I don’t want to feel… I don’t need you to worry over me… I’m not some child,” England lowered his fists, felt dizzy as his face heated up from unshed tears. He still held the needle, felt the rising tension inside him. “Like… before…” 

God, why was he remembering  _ that _ ? He realized vaguely that he was shaking from holding himself so tightly, his breath coming faster as he couldn’t stop remembering, couldn’t stop seeing the room lit in grey, the ghost of basin-large hands over him, the death and forced life inside him that kept strumming through him over and over. He had to be a corpse again. Had to be unfeeling. This was too much. He was panting now, eyes wide, and yet he couldn’t really see, the blanket of the bed a visual static as much as the rushing in his ears. Trapped in the centuries-old terror of being tiny, of being soft. Taken. 

Spain watched him deteriorate before his eyes, and he was quick to drop the slate and chalk to the end of the bed. He groaned as he jostled his wounds, being reminded by the pain of what Lucille had done to him, but he persevered, shifting onto his side to face England. He held his right shoulder, stroking his thumb against his collar bone. "England…" whatever was happening, Spain didn't like it, he climbed to his knees, trying to get England to lie down, unsure what he needed, what he could do to help, but knowing that he couldn't just leave him as he was. 

England was in a state of terror. Complete and concentrated. He couldn’t think, couldn’t slow down his racing thoughts, his racing breath, the racing shivers through his whole body. He was being held down, he was being smothered, he was dying. When Spain touched him it hurt, felt like a burn. He tried to help him lie back but it felt like being pushed to the bed. 

He wanted to scream but couldn't, voice gagged by the physical fear taking over his body. He could only whimper, tears streaming down his cheeks, staring up sightless. 

Spain forced his voice to work, forced his aching body to work against England's. "It's… okay… you're okay…" he swallowed, he let up on England, instead carding his fingers through his hair and shushed him gently. "It's… okay…" 

He knew what was happening now, having been there many times himself. The panic, the terror in his eyes, tense muscles, and clenched teeth. He cupped his cheeks and stroked them with his thumbs. "It's okay…" 

It wasn't ok. He wasn't ok. But he realized it was Spain, that he was on his ship, that he was breaking down in front of him. England shuddered and felt the well of sobs inside him overflow and hated himself intensely for allowing it to happen. He covered his eyes and cried, chest rising and falling with frantic breaths, trying desperately to rein them in, to suppress them, all the while terror was still alive and prowling inside him. He dropped the syringe to grab Spain’s hand instead, holding it tight and just squeezing. Something to ground him, bring him all the way back. 

“I’m- sorry,” England gasped between stifled sobs. "I'm so sorry for… everything…"

Spain wrapped his arm around England, letting him hold onto his other hand as tight as he needed. It was his injured hand that England had grabbed, but at that moment he didn't care. 

"You're… okay…" he whispered brokenly against his hair, his voice cracking from both the pain and from seeing England in this way. "Let it… out…" 

He didn’t know he needed permission, but those words unlocked the tightness in his chest, caused the deep well to gush forth, and suddenly the sobs turned into howls and he completely collapsed against Spain, let himself be held, and let the tears flow unhindered. He wasn’t even sure what it was he was crying about - something that happened centuries ago, having gotten bent over this very bed the night before, the fact he was being so weak in front of Spain, all of it swirled together in an ugly noise being drawn uncontrollably from his chest. 

Spain sighed softly, almost in relief, holding him firmly against him, there was definitely something… he was hiding something… but as much as he wanted to know, he also didn't. It was strange, he wanted to know everything since being in the alliance, wanted to know his ticks, so he could avoid them or use them, whatever the situation required. He hated thinking that way, but it was a necessary way of thinking when it came to other nations. Especially England. But seeing him so broken in his arms, made him want to know who'd hurt him, although he was certain he already knew, he wanted to know what had happened to offer him comfort… but he also didn't want to ask, didn't want to know until England wanted to tell him, was  _ ready  _ to tell him. Knowing full well that that day might never come, with how stubborn England was. 

Instead, he offered an ultimatum. Something that required England to choose his next steps as opposed to forcing them on him. 

"You can… talk to me… about it..." 

England breathed and heard the offer, wasn't sure what to make of it. It was bad enough he couldn't stop crying, but to actually probe the emotional wounds felt monumentally stupid. He shook and breathed and got himself under control, gulping and curled against Spain's steady warmth.

"There isn't much to say," England croaked out after a minute or two.

Spain nodded, stroking his hair softly, he wasn't sure how it would be received, but he closed his eyes and pressed his lips against the crown of his head, resting them there.

"Offer's there…"

He twirled a lock of hair around his finger, "and… I'm here…" 

England sighed, feeling exhausted suddenly, and tilted his head against Spain's hand, like a cat seeking after a stroke.

"This is good enough for now…" England said, loosening his grip on Spain's hand and rethreading their fingers so they were interlaced instead. 

Spain nodded, feeling warm with how England sunk into his hand, how he held onto his other hand. He smiled softly, "okay…" 

\----

Mateo jolted awake. Shit. He'd fallen asleep. He looked at the entrance to the brig, blinking blearily. He couldn't hear anything. What if they'd escaped? 

He stood, walking down the steps to the brig and seeing the pair still in there. Feeling his body relax knowing they were still captive. 

**"Oh, you're here."** Lucille said, looking at Mateo and grinning.  **"Come for revenge for your sweet captain?"**

Mateo felt annoyance at her words,  **"I--"**

**"His cries were so…** **_sweet."_ ** She cooed. 

The annoyance turned to a wave of mild anger.  **"Shut up."**

**"What? Can't take the fact your captain took my knife up his ass?"**

Mateo froze, his blood going cold and he tried to suppress the pure rage he felt at that moment.  **_"What?"_ **

**"My knife. Went up. Your captain's ass."**

Mateo struck the bars with his good hand, a loud clanging echoing through the brig and the hold. There was a dent in the bar and he gripped it tightly with a white knuckled hold. 

**"You… fucking--"** he glared at her, breathing heavily  **"--fucking bitch! What's wrong with you? What left you so broken inside that you'd do something like that?!"**

**"The same things that made you weak."** She approached the bars, lifting her head to look down her nose at him.  **"Time and time again I should've died, but I fought tooth and nail to escape, to win, to** **_live._ ** **You're a disgrace to our country, running away the way you did."**

Mateo was less than a meter away from her now, the pair standing toe to toe, chest to chest, nose to nose. Neither refusing to back down and be the first to walk away. 

**"You've done nothing but carve a path of destruction everywhere you go."**

Lucille just smirked, raised her fist, and aimed to punch him through the bars. But Mateo was faster, gripping her hand and twisting her arm. 

**"You'll likely die for what you've done."**

**"I'm not afraid of death!"**

Mateo leaned in closer.  **"Then why are you shaking like a scared little girl?"**

Lucille pulled her hand free and massaged her sore wrist, sure enough, she was trembling. She scowled.

France smirked from his spot leaning against the wall, enjoying the conflict. 

“ _ She is no girl I assure you. She did nothing he didn’t already deserve, _ ” France said in French, forcing Mateo to translate on the fly. 

Mateo felt his rage snap, and he began cursing. 

**"He didn't deserve** **_that!"_ **

_ “What are you going to do about it? Stick her with a knife as well? You’re too soft. You never should have been chosen in the first place, _ ” France said, not bothering to deny it. If he hadn’t already spent so many years being willingly dominated by her, seeing her stab-fuck Spain would have shocked him as well. As it was, he’d laughed when she pulled the knife out. So like her to be over the top. 

Mateo knew he should've backed away, left their punishments to England. But at that moment, his judgment was clouded. Anger coursing through his veins. He opened the door to the brig, stepping inside and pulling a pistol from his belt. He aimed at Lucille first. 

**"I won't fuck you with a knife, but I'll shoot you."** He slammed the door behind him. 

It was his fault this had happened… if he hadn't given her the transfusion, she'd be dead and France would be outnumbered and useless. 

Lucille smirked, itching the earlier wound on her collarbone like it was nothing at all.  **"Do it."**

France didn’t wait for him to make a choice. Without hesitation, he rushed forward and slammed Mateo’s one arm against the bars. Extended toward Lucille, he couldn’t block him and slammed heavily against the bars as he lost his balance. 

“Now! Grab the keys, Lucille!” 

Lucille ran forward and reached into the pocket Mateo had put the keys in, she grabbed them and smirked at Mateo. 

Mateo panicked, thrashing against the bars and he planted his foot firmly in France's stomach, kicking him. 

France stumbled and grunted but was immediately back at his throat, swinging a punch at his jaw. 

Lucille grabbed the pistol from Mateo's hand and aimed it at his face. 

**"Thanks~ I can use this on your captain--"**

**"No!"**

**"I always wondered what would happen if I put a bullet up someone's ass."**

**"Bitch!"** Mateo growled, struggling against them. He spat bloody spittle against the floor. Fuck. France had got him good. 

“ _ Her being a woman isn’t what makes one a bitch, dear Mateo, _ ” France said slyly, holding his stomach, smiling at Mateo with a knowing look.  _ “Like your captain, for example. _ **_”_ **

Mateo snarled,  **"and you?"**

Lucille lowered the gun, but not by much.  **"Where would you like** **_your_ ** **bullet?"**

She roamed the pistol along his body with ease, settling on his head, his shoulder, his stomach. 

**"I know."** She aimed the flintlock at his crotch.  **"What do you think?"** She looked at France with a smirk. 

France winced, even he had a line that Lucille easily blew over.  **“** _ My love, you can’t use what isn’t there. As a man I have to say, shoot him in the leg. _ ” 

Lucille rolled her eyes but nodded, raising the gun rather than lowering it and shooting him below the collarbone. Watching him fall forward against France with a scream. 

**"That's for earlier."**

She moved to the door, feeding her arms through the bars to put the key in the lock and twist it. 

“ _ He has much to learn as a nation. I know I taught you better, of course, _ ” France said watching her with glowing pride. " _ And I mean what I said. You have to start thinking long term. Do you want to lose a bargaining chip? Create an unnecessary grudge? There's more to being a nation than just being able to survive a battle,"  _ France said, smile turning vengeful. " _ It's a lesson England and Spain already know. Burning my ship comes with long term consequences, an incredibly foolish mistake that will follow them for 100 years or more. How long do you think he will pursue you if he loses his manhood?"  _ France asked casually but he was serious. 

Lucille looked back at him, eyes alight with fire,  _ "maybe it's the thrill of the hunt I crave."  _ She smirked, stalking from the brig and waiting for him to follow before locking the door on Mateo.  _ "Spain won't get away with what he did. Leaving my country to rot at the hands of  _ your _ men. Harboring the Disgrace of Andorra over there." _ She thumbed at Mateo.  _ "I know what I want. And I will do whatever it takes to get it."  _

She began walking, stepping from the brig and then from the hold, with a deep breath of sea air she turned. "You're either with me or against me. I trust you know where you lie." She made a bee-line for England's cabin, glancing through the small, broken window to see Spain sleeping, but no sign of England. "England's gone. Spain's sleeping." She spun the pistol on her finger before gripping the handle and opening the door. 

Lucille snuck inside like a shadow, looming over Spain and her eyes roving over his injuries with a sadistic grin. 

"Well, well, well…" she cooed, hand wrapping around his throat as she straddled him. 

She squeezed, and Spain jolted under her grip, waking up and eyes going wide, he opened his mouth to speak, or scream, she wasn't sure. But her fingers tightened around his throat. Nails almost cutting into his skin. 

"One word, and I'll rip your throat out." She pressed a finger against his lips, stroking down his chin before looking to the door, making sure they were alone. 

Spain looked up at her fiery eyes, trembling as he reached for her wrist, anything to loosen the constricting sensation around his throat. His ass still hurt, a raw cavernous sensation, even more so now he was staring at the reason why it was so painful. He struggled until she said she'd rip his throat out, then he knew he had to bide his time and pick his moment carefully. 

\----

England was having a hell of a time getting his men back on their feet following the communal drugged orgy. 

"You useless lugs! Get up, you can't sleep there! You two, stop that! Don't make me separate you! You call yourselves men?" 

Half of them were asleep, half were still palming each other and cuddling, and none of them were listening. England with an exasperated huff gave up trying to wrangle them and went to drop the anchor, a task he hadn't done himself in decades. He typically had men who listened to him. He looked up at the sail, knowing he couldn't furl it on his own, and sighed irritated. 

He wanted to give Spain time to rest and heal and he’d left without waking him. But he couldn't raise the sails all alone and his men were still useless. He'd have to get Spain and Andorra to help. He turned and walked back to the captain's quarters and opened the door. 

"Didn't want to disturb you but-" England stopped short when he saw who was in the room and instantly his hackles were up.

"Ahhhh, an unexpected interruption," Lucille cooed, breaking into a grin. 

Spain seized his chance, gripping her wrists and pushing against her weight on his throat. He raised a leg and kicked her firmly in the stomach, sending her back and she hit her head against the post at the base of the bed. 

Spain jumped up, stumbling from the bed and putting distance between them. His legs nearly gave out, knees weak, and the pain in his lower back and ass made him stumble again and he caught himself against a chest of drawers, panting. 

England closed the distance and grabbed her by the throat, dragging her off the bed entirely and wrenching an arm back into a joint lock to control her. He too had experience manipulating prisoners and with the shoe on the other foot, he was rough with Lucille. 

"How the _ fuck  _ did you get out? And why come here? To bully him some more? For what?!"

Lucille grunted with the rough treatment, but then she turned to look over her shoulder and laughed. 

"Because it's fun," her eyes were narrowed with jest. 

Spain looked at them, watching with wide eyes as England brought her under control. 

But Lucille started to struggle against England's hold. He snarled and pulled a dagger, holding it to her back and pressing hard - not enough to stab but enough to hurt. 

"Spain, are you okay? Did she do anything to you?" England asked, glancing back over to Spain who was still on the bed.

Spain nodded, "y--yeah…" then he turned to Lucille. "Where's… France…?" 

Lucille grinned when she felt the dagger against her back, ignoring Spain's question and asking her own, "is that the one that has been through Spain's hand not once, but twice?" 

England twisted her arm harder grinding just the very tip of the knife into her flesh. "Want to beat his number? I'm happy to help with that," England spat, not sure why he hadn't already stabbed her.

Lucille groaned, bowing her head before looking back up at England, "try me."

Spain looked at England, looked at Lucille, back to England. "Where's France?" He repeated, stronger this time. "Wait… where's Mateo?" 

"Now you're asking the right questions," Lucille smirked. 

"Toss me that belt, we'll tie her up and then find those two. He better not be fucking up my ship, goddamn it!" England felt a spike of panic and kicked Lucille's legs, knocking her to her knees. He caught the belt and cinched it tight around her wrists, grabbing her under her arm and lifting her back up, all done with haste. "We'll use her as bait, get them both back under control. Come  _ on _ ! Grab your sword already!" England snipped.

Spain nodded, grabbing Alfanje from where he'd left it. 

"Ready…" 

"Move it, bitch." England held the end of the belt, prodded her forward with the dagger. Her shirt was turned red down the back, a narrow stream of blood. 

Lucille staggered, forcing herself to walk forward. The pain was nothing compared to what she'd experienced fleeing for her life and inside France's court. But still… it was a new kind of pain. 

She forced her posture, walking with her head held high. 

England wasn’t sure he believed Spain, that he was alright after being pinned down by the woman who did  _ that _ to him, but he knew it was better to deny certain things rather than try to understand them. She was going to pay for hurting him like that. He already knew what he was going to do. But first things first… They stepped out onto the deck and England immediately started scanning for France. He found him quickly, his striking blue outfit made him stand out. He was perched at the helm steering the ship. The anchor had been raised and he was setting a different course. 

England was incensed. 

“Get the fuck off my wheel! You’re not the captain of this ship, France!” England shouted, shoving harder against Lucille, a fresh puncture.

France simply grinned at England, looking down on him from the helm. 

“See Lucille? I told you we should have found England and disabled him first. Just couldn’t help yourself seeing Spain lying there defenseless, huh?” France smirked, entirely unconcerned that she was bound and bleeding. 

Lucille glowered at France, tugging against England and the restraints. 

"I'll deal with him…" Spain said, drawing Alfanje and stalking up the steps to the helm. 

“Fine. I’ll take the bitch to the brig. I bet that’s where Andorra is as well,” England said, already moving toward the open hold with his hostage. “You’ve caused enough trouble for one day.” He shoved her forward, watching with sadistic glee as she tripped and fell into the hold, unable to even use her hands to catch herself. 

Lucille glared at England over her shoulder, hair messily curling around her face. She struggled onto her knees and twisted to face him. 

"I can do so much more trouble. Just you wait." She snarled. 

England climbed down the rope ladder to the hold, landing lightly on the balls of his feet. He grinned and turned to face her, walking over and kicked her in the stomach. 

“Ungrateful bitch. Should have let you die. Now we’re just going to hurt you over and over. How many times have you died so far? Just the first big one right? I‘ll show you how - give you something to practice on,” England said, drawing his sword and holding it to her neck. Being a woman meant less than being a nation, he had no mercy for a country, especially after what she’d done to Spain. Forced him to watch that nightmare and participate in it. 

Lucille leaned over herself, clutching her stomach, and grimaced, but the pain didn't warrant much more of a reaction. She felt the blade against her skin, the cold feeling of steel on flesh. 

She scoffed, with her newfound power, even without it, she hadn't feared death. What was the point in starting now? But… the way France had looked at her, uninterested and uncaring, it reminded her of her original goal. 

"I'll kill him…" she muttered, looking at the floor. "I'll kill that bastard." 

“After you, darling,” England taunted, moving the blade from her neck and slicing her shoulder instead. “We’ll take our time though, no need to rush, right? Let’s see how many cuts it takes to get to you,” England grinned, remembering how he’d put Mateo through his first revival paces. He’d get to kill the set, apparently. Lucky him.

Lucille grunted as he cut into her shoulder, looking up at him, she didn't give him the satisfaction of a retort. 

She'd never used the fact she was a woman to get out of a fight. She mostly used it to start them, and she knew exactly how to get under England's skin. 

"You're just like him," she sneered.

“Who? The other Andorra? Don’t bother trying to compare us, you’re both babies compared to the rest of us,” England scoffed. 

She smirked, "no, Francis." She spat his name. "I can't wait to kill him. I'll kill his whole court." 

“France? I thought you two had… A _ thing _ together…” England couldn’t define it further, was still bewildered by France’s interest in her and their strange dynamic. He could never let himself be dominated by a woman… But France apparently loved it. His perversion knew no bounds. England moved the sword to her other shoulder, drawing it back along her deltoid and slicing deep. He could converse and cut at the same time. 

"Hah… I'm just a pawn in his game…" she gasped, "he cares as much about me as he did about my people." Her tone was dark. "I watched him and his men cut down scores of defenseless people - as if I could be a  _ thing _ , as you so eloquently put it, with him."

England frowned, unsure what to make of her confession. 

“If you’re going for sympathy, it’s not going to work. What sort of country would he be if he didn’t lead his men? Conquer some shit? If you’d been on my border I would have done the same,” England let the sword trail down, touch against her hip before slicing through the fabric there, cutting into her curve. “You’re not a mortal anymore, sweetie. You can’t think about your people as individuals, they're your source of power. You draw from them. Killing your people is the fastest way to weaken a nation, though I guess you’re the one who killed your old representative, aren’t you,” England said, flinging his blade to the side and clearing off the blood, ready for the next cut. “How ironic,” England finished darkly.

Lucille scowled, "I don't want your sympathy anyway, as soon as I escape here I'm going to kill him… he killed my family, my sisters, my people, I'm going to make him pay for what he did. I'll show him teaching me how to kill a nation was the biggest mistake of his life after crossing paths with me in the first place." 

England laughed at her, pointed the sword in her face again hovering right over her cheek. “We've all got tragic backstories, love. Don't think you're the only one with cause to want him dead. And yet still he's here. You're right he shouldn't have taught you anything, I'm going to correct that mistake for him.” England jerked the sword forward just a twitch enough to open a tiny line over her face.

Lucille jerked away from the blade, eyes watching it closely. She lifted to kneel from where she sat on her legs, struggling to stand with her hands behind her back. She fell onto her ass, arms trapped in the folds of her knees. She looked at her position, grinning up at England as she fed her legs through her arms, her hands were in front of her now, and she straightened to stand. Her hands were still bound, but she was better prepared with them in front of her. 

“You still want to fight me? That's good, you make a better nation than the other one,” England grinned, enjoyed bullying the new Andorra.

She shrugged with a smile, "you're fun to break." And before he could react she kicked him, a firm roundhouse kick to his face. By the time he'd realized what had just transpired she'd already put space between them. 

England was not expecting that kick to the face at all, not after how bloody she was, her being tied up, having dominated many a nation down in this hold. He stumbled to the side but regained his balance straightening up and glaring after her, “You little bitch!

Lucille smirked, "what was that? I couldn't hear you over your pathetic whining." She ran at the rope to the deck, gripping it in both hands and clambering up it, slowly but surely climbing higher and higher. Her arms hurt, shoulders aching and bleeding, but her want-- no,  _ need _ for revenge only grew. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DO NOT mix alcohol and opioids! You can die. England does it because he’s a mess that won’t die. He’s a mess. Don’t be like England. 


	9. Fracture Like Bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England faces his past. Spain is confronted by the Beauty's Beast.

Spain reached the top of the stairs leading to the helm, feeling a rage bubbling inside him with every step, remembering all the things England had said, probably without meaning to, making him promise to never leave him alone with France, the  _ 'he can have it back' _ comment… 

He stopped mere feet away from France, feeling queasy and nausea rolled over him. He definitely wasn't battle-ready… Everything hurt unbelievably, his ass especially tender, his mind wasn't at its sharpest either, in fact, it was the opposite, dulled and blunt. 

But what hurt the most was his pride, being knife fucked had left a… lasting impression on him, something that made him shake at the thought of finding Lucille on top of him again… 

But this wasn't about him. 

He frowned at France, brows almost meeting in the middle. 

"You raped him that night, didn't you? After I left you seized your chance." 

France scoffed, one hand on the wheel, and his other resting on his hip, fingers over the hilt of a pistol. 

"I'd hardly call it that, not after what we both did to him. And why do you care, Spain? He's done far worse to you. I thought you'd be grateful I knocked him down a notch," France said, not denying it, not apologizing for it. "Did he come crying to you afterward? Made you feel bad for him? Don't let him fool you. He'll be back at your throat soon enough, then you'll wish I did more than that," France said with a sniff. 

Spain felt his temper boiling and he rushed forward, swinging Alfanje at France, his legs felt weak, but with adrenaline starting to sing its tune in his veins, he didn't notice much pain or weakness anymore. He lowered his center of gravity and dragged the blade upwards, hoping to carve a vertical line up France's front. 

France withdrew the pistol from his hip, blocking Spain’s attack with the barrel and twirling the gun on his finger before firing at Spain. The latter dodged the bullet by nothing at all, things had slowed down almost supernaturally and he was sure he’d felt the surge of hot air expanding around the bullet as it flew past his face. 

“Good maneuver,” France said, but it was far from a compliment. 

“Cut the crap,” Spain shot back, “you know you fucked up the shot.” 

France hummed, “perceptive, to all but England’s lies.” 

Spain didn’t respond this time, instead, he rushed forward, switching hands and using his left to swing at France. This time he stumbled, legs hitting the rail from the helm onto the main deck. Spain lunged forward, a bullet disrupting the attack and piercing his side, Spain gasped, clutching his waist where the bullet had struck. 

He bared his teeth in a growl, glaring at France through thick dark brown lashes and he forced himself to remain standing. He slashed at France, the attack leaving a lot to be desired in his weakened state. 

“The difference between you and England, and England and I, is simple. History.” France sneered, stepping away from the rail and closer to Spain, using his moment of hesitation to grip his wrist holding the sword, his other going to his throat, drag him closer, and whisper in his ear. 

Spain’s eyes widened, in shock or disgust he wasn’t sure, maybe it was both as well as a whole other myriad of emotions. At the first he was adamant he’d heard wrong; he’d heard something that wasn’t there at all. But it took France speaking it again, louder this time, for the words to fully sink in.

“You have to train them young. As a teenager, but younger is ideal. If you can link together revival and affection and fear he’ll do anything for it, for you. Never be able to stand against you. You missed your opportunity with him I’m afraid, he’ll never get out from under my shadow, no matter how bright you may be,” France hissed, eyes fading back into memory as he recalled England’s training.

In a sudden rage, Spain broke his grip and lifted Alfanje, and while France was telling his… sordid tale, lost in a memory of England’s prepubescent struggles and strife, he ran the blade through France’s stomach, the angle meaning that the blade pushed through under his sternum and entered his chest. Not satisfied, Spain continued to push the blade by the hilt, palm flat against the pommel, forcing it up to the guard through France’s body, shattering between his deep rhomboid muscles and tearing his trapezius almost in half, exiting just off-center and to the right of his spine, between it and his shoulder blade. 

At that moment, Spain found himself toppling over the edge of the helm, tumbling with a thud onto the deck below. He heard a crack, unsure if it was splintering wood or crushed bone. He coughed, hacked, crawling onto his hands and knees. Bloody handprints decorated where he’d fallen, and his hands were sticky with drying and congealing blood. He retched, dry heaved from the fall but nothing happened. He shook his head and looked up at the helm, seeing Lucille’s twisted grin. Her foot was positioned on the wooden rail, bloodied body leaning over herself to look at him. 

If she’d got out… 

Then where was England?

As if on cue, a hand pressed onto his shoulder, a body sinking to its knees beside him.

“England…” Spain choked out, coughing again. 

Spain braced himself for Lucille, she looked ready to jump down and finish them off, eyes narrow and gaze predatory, but instead, she turned, stalking over to where Alfanje was protruding from France and gripping the hilt. 

“Ah, Lucille--” 

“Shut up,” she removed the blade and watched France sink to the floor, “give me one good reason why I shouldn’t skewer your heart and eat it?” She scowled, forcing Alfanje into the deck. 

“B-because… If you killed me… then all you would have left is vengeance. You're nothing… but a vendetta without me, right?” France was breathing rapid and shallow and blood flowed from his mouth, staining his chest and back but his eyes were steely blue balls, his words a spell. 

Spain turned to England, “what the hell?” 

“Don't ask me, she has a grudge or something.” 

“While they’re fighting amongst themselves… We should try to capture them.” 

“Yeah, she isn’t so smart taking out her only other ally on the whole damn boat,”

Lucille froze, for the first time fear showing on her face. Then she scowled and knelt on her haunches, looking down at France and repeating a twisted version of his words. 

"But… you're just  _ lying there defenselessly,  _ I just can't help myself." She muttered darkly. 

France coughed, smiled grimly, "I know… I would have… done the same… But you need to… work on your timing…" 

Lucille looked away, not willing to admit he was right, that she should time things better. Instead, she mumbled, "just die already." But made no move to finish him off. 

"If you insist…  chérie …" France gasped out, leaning against the blade still running him through. "But, you might… miss me when I'm gone…" His eyes went wide and he fell forward with a scream as the pressure he put against the blade did the trick and he sliced open his own heart. He was dead in seconds, slumping against the sword. 

Lucille looked at him, remaining silent, feeling hollow. Why did she feel hollow? She'd, in a way, done what she'd set out to do all those years ago… 

Spain looked at England, not waiting for him to give an order before he was rushing up the stairs and freeing Alfanje from France's body, aiming it at Lucille. 

"Brig. Now." He commanded. But she made no move to get up, no move to do anything at all. 

England watched from the lower deck as Spain ran up and held the sword toward Lucille, not surprised when she didn't react. He called up to Spain. 

"She stabbed France after I was busy slicing her up. Just kill her Spain, threats don't work on crazy," 

Spain looked down at her, and she returned the look with her own steely glare. 

"Brig, now." He repeated. 

Lucille sighed, her hands still bound in front of her, she hoisted herself up and began walking, Spain on her heels with Alfanje. "One wrong move and I'll run the blade through you next." 

"Yeah, yeah," Lucille rolled her eyes, walking past England with her head held high. 

Spain grabbed the collar of France's coat, tugging him along while marching Lucille to the hold. He motioned for England to follow.

"Here, let me," England grinned, stepping up the steps to grab France from him, watch with evil glee as he was dragged down the steps, hitting every one on his way down. Once on the deck, England used both arms to fling France headfirst into the hold, lighting up with even more mirth when heard bone snapping with the impact. 

"Hahahaha! He's gonna have to deal with that now too, heh heh… Hey, Spain, we should leave her with a knife. Let her keep playing with France. Show him what happens when you raise a monster," England grinned widely, nearly feral in his excitement for torture. "Hey, bitch, you know just stabbing him like that won't kill him, right? But keep on hurting him, maybe it will work eventually!" England started laughing uncontrollably.

Lucille jumped down and kicked France in the face as she landed. 

"I don't think she'll need a knife…" Spain said, climbing down and guiding her to the brig, finding Mateo behind the bars. "Mateo!" 

England looked up and saw the male Andorra standing in the brig, one arm gripped to the bar. 

"God, they're both such babies! She kills her ally before they control the ship, he gets locked up by his own prisoners. Are we sure we really need a representative for Andorra? These two aren't cutting it, at all," England smirked, enjoying being back in control. 

Spain rolled his eyes, looking at him, "well, they are new to this."

**"Cap'n…"** Mateo started, letting go of the bar to scratch at the side of his nose.  **"I'm sorry, they--"**

**"It's okay."** Spain smiled, opening the brig and letting Mateo out before pushing Lucille inside and throwing France in too.

Mateo took his place behind England and Spain, looking between them with a curious stare. 

" _ Is _ it okay?  **Because of him you got fucked by a knife and I just got fucked** ,” England said, switching to Spanish to be sure Mateo understood what was his fault before immediately switching back to English. “Don't let them out again, fool. We've got enough trouble on our plate having them on this ship. France isn't going to just let us get away… Speaking of, I'd better go see where he set our course. Spain, talk some sense into him. Or better yet, some English," he said, kicking the bars once on his way out for good measure. 

Spain was speechless, hearing England slip into Spanish so easily, he knew he  _ knew _ Spanish, but not that he could speak it so fluently…

**"Because of him, we were saved! In case you didn't know, I'm the one who brought them on the ship! Not Mateo!"** He shot back at England, making sure Mateo knew that too, he stormed after England. "Get back here right now!" 

Mateo watched, looking down before looking up at Lucille, frowning and going up to the hold and assuming his previous position, grateful Spain took the keys with him this time. 

England heard Spain yelling and running up after him and just stomped up faster. He really didn’t want to argue with Spain, not after what they’d just been through, but between the drugs, the rum, the latest escape, England knew he wasn’t going to have a good response, no matter how he tried to phrase it. It was better to just avoid it altogether, but it seemed like Spain wasn’t going to let him. 

“Just leave it! Do you want me to be pissed at you too?” England yelled over his shoulder. See? He didn’t know how to be nice. He was trying to avoid talking to him in order to be kind, but he couldn’t do it when there was a conflict right in his face. 

Spain continued to follow him to the helm, stomping behind him with dogged determination. He climbed the steps with less adrenaline than earlier, more of a stumble and tremble than anything else. 

But he kept going. 

"Listen, England," he said, calmer this time yet no less firm, "I get that you're angry, frustrated… but don't take it out on Mateo, it's my fault they're here, not his." 

England gripped the wheel tight, unable to focus on sailing or finding their course. Unable to do anything but squeeze harder, look forward and pinch his mouth into a tight line. 

“Go away, Spain,” England said in a low voice. He was already holding back. Knew he couldn’t stop himself if he was pushed any further. He was already on his own self-created edge. 

"England," Spain said sharply. "Listen to me." He gripped his shoulder, forcing him to look at him. 

England snapped. 

“I don’t  _ want _ to listen, okay? I want to fucking kill someone! And yeah, I get that it’s your fault too! I have enough blame to go around so don’t fucking ask me to forgive him, or you for that matter! You betrayed me, and then this happens, and you want me to - to- to what? Pour him a goddamn cup of tea?!” England heaved, yelling and grabbing Spain’s shoulder as well, shoving him back off of him, striding forward to cover the distance he’d just created. 

“Should I punish you too? For speaking Spanish, for bringing France on my ship, for getting us both fucked?! Huh? Is that what you want? Do you  _ want _ me to be cruel?” England snarled, grabbing him by the collar and cocking an arm back. He desperately wanted to punch him, usually would have already thrown him away like any other problem he encountered. If only it wasn’t for his goddamn face, that goddamn expression. Threats of violence were his only options when backed into a corner, why couldn’t Spain see that?

Spain tried to keep his expression calm, level-headed, and tone steady.

"England…" He wondered if this was the right thing to do. "I know what happened, I know." He reached up for England's hand fisted in his collar, hands closing around it only not to pry him away, but offer some form of comfort. Or at least try. Try to soothe his open wounds. His thumb grazed the back of England's hand. 

England slapped away the extended hand, it wasn’t a punch, but he couldn’t accept any tenderness. He could only be spikey, hateful, it’s what he was good at. 

“You don’t know shit,” England said flatly, still trying to keep the rage and violence inside him from spilling out. He stepped back, gained more distance from him. 

_ "He _ told me…" Spain explained, not daring to utter France's name around England. "When we were fighting." Spain looked down. "I… I'm not going to apologize," because he knew that wouldn't be what England wanted to hear. Instead, "will cementing your status be useful?" Spain asked, eyes hooded as he stepped forward. 

England stepped back, the rage in him transmuting into something confusing and swirling and he didn’t know where it was going, what it meant. Just that the way Spain was looking at him was familiar and frightening and he loved it, and…. And wouldn’t that be nice? To just let someone else be in charge? 

“My… Status…” England said shakily, then caught another fact, another eddy in the billowing inside of him. “France told you,” he said, feeling smaller by the second. It’s what he was good at. He should just… Just do it… He looked down to the decks, his arms still itched, his heart still raced, but he took Spain’s wrist and tugged him silently to the stern, the long curved rail there. He leaned against it, bent at the waist over the rail, bowing his head, guiding Spain’s hand to his hip and extending his ass toward him. A silent invitation.

Spain felt himself flush, this wasn't what he'd had in mind. Perhaps he'd phrased it wrong… 

"England…" he mumbled softly, pressing them flush together with his hands on his waist, "turn around." 

England shuddered, heard it as a command, knew he shouldn’t lower himself like this, out in the open, but he couldn’t help it. He knew. He  _ knew _ . England turned around, still against the rail, kept his gaze below his shoulders, his hands gripped the rail behind him. 

Spain sunk to his knees in front of him, stroking down his thighs as he went. "Cement your status as captain of this vessel… of me." He said, unbuckling his belt.

“O-oh…” England breathed, feeling himself flush in embarrassment. How did he miss that? Because he was thinking about France, his status within that dynamic. But this was Spain, the nation he’d chosen to be with, the one who kept coming back no matter how vicious he was, the one who put up with him with such patience and kindness, the one who had forged an alliance with him and now… Now was on his knees trying to get through to him. 

“Spain… You don’t have to do that…” England said, feeling dazed. 

Spain hummed, "and what if I want to?" 

“I- But… Spain… I’m no good… Why would you want to? With someone as - as messed up as me?” England asked, still holding tight to the rail. 

Spain smiled softly, "because I want to…" 

England heard the words repeated softly, knew a command should never be said twice, and whimpered, nodded, undid the laces at his crotch. He looked down, breathed heavily as he met Spain’s eyes, and felt that charge of life through him. His mouth cracked open, leaned against the rail, his legs fell apart, felt himself helplessly grow under his breath, his gaze. 

“Please…” England said quietly, head tilted, one shoulder juggled up, breathing hard.

Spain's face flushed, and he nosed the side of his cock, kissing his shaft wetly before taking the tip in his mouth, working his tongue over the sensitive glans. 

"Fuck my mouth, England~" 

“Y-yes… I’ll fuck your mouth…” England repeated, his voice a strange upward lilt, hands going back to the rail and bracing his hips forward in small little thrusts, just enough to move the tip in and out. He was watching at first but the sight was too much; England flung his head back with an open mouth cry nearly losing his hat. He grabbed it at the last second, clawed it off his head, and put it on Spain. 

Spain blushed at the sudden weight of the hat and the sudden darkness, letting his jaw go slack and his tongue lolling from his mouth. 

He bobbed his head in time with England's thrusts, taking him deeper. 

“Ah, ah!” England let his voice out, breathy little moans, appeasing gasps. He dared not touch him, dared not drive his hips further, felt himself wondering if he was doing it right; if he was doing it good enough? Spain was taking him deeper but he didn’t deserve it. How could he get him to enjoy it more? “Please…” England begged, hoping Spain would tell him what to do. 

Something didn't feel right… Spain realized, there was none of England's usual fire. None of his snippiness or attitude...he was oddly docile, and that worried Spain. 

He moved off England's cock, moving to stand and he gripped his face in his hands, pressing their foreheads together. 

"Take a minute… and breathe…" 

Spain looming in front of him, holding him, suddenly filling all his senses, England froze, eyes growing wide. He wasn’t doing it right… The fear was back.

“I-I’m sorry… Please, please… Let me try… Let me try again,” England panted, smiling and nodding, don’t let him see the panic, he dropped to his knees - or tried to anyway, working at undoing Spain’s fly. 

Spain froze, "England, no..." He gripped him by the shoulders and pushed him back. 

Something was wrong, very, very wrong. This wasn't what he wanted. He took England's hands in his, stroking his skin soothingly. He sat on the deck with England, giving him back his hat. 

"I don't need two..." he smiled, wrapping his arm around his shoulder. "You're okay…" 

England was breathing harder, felt his mind racing, pulse spiking. How could he be okay? He wasn’t… Doing what he was supposed to… 

“B-but… I want you to feel good…“ England said softly, trying to find a way to please him, a way to make it right. He lifted his eyes, actually managed to flutter his eyelashes slightly, holding himself tight, touching at the hand on his shoulder. 

Spain smiled sadly, stroking a few strands of hair from his face and bringing their foreheads together. 

"Well… I need you to focus on me and your breathing… take some deep breaths for me, okay?" 

England whimpered, felt his breathing coming even faster, his heart hammering rapidly, and strangely he felt like he wasn’t getting enough oxygen. Like his shallow pants were just making him lightheaded, the air unquenching. The edges of his vision were going grey and splotchy. 

“I can’t breathe…” England said, knowing that couldn’t be true and still speak, but he felt like he was drowning. He was shaking, eyes blurry and unfocused. 

"Shit…" Spain whispered. He picked England up, scooping him into his arms and taking him to his quarters where they could be alone, where England could fall apart and nobody would see. He put him down on the bed, sitting with him and pulling him into his lap. Spain let England rest his head on his chest, stroking his hair softly and soothingly. 

"You'll be okay, cariño… I've got you…" 

England gripped against Spain’s chest, curled up tighter, curled into himself, his muscles pulling in hard and clenching up until he was seized with tension. He felt the blurriness in his eyes spill over as tears, the choking gasping sounds finally morphed into crying, but it was still not enough he still couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get enough air. He could barely see, still shaking and unable to form a single coherent thought. 

Spain didn't know what else he could do, felt powerless to help. So, he continued with what he was doing, only this time he began singing, a soft lilting lullaby he remembered from his youth, something that never failed to calm him down. He sang the Spanish song softly to England, whispering into the scant air between them. Under England, the lullaby made a rich rumble in his chest and he closed his eyes, gently rocking from side to side and taking England with him.

England heard the song, gentle singing he couldn’t understand, just barely beyond his grasp, but it matched the swaying he felt, the stroking along his head, he felt his chest rise and fall with the words, breathing in deep to sing, and England felt himself come back a bit, tried to mimic his pattern, even if his breath still stuttered a few extra times in between each one. He shook and listened and let the music hold him, let Spain hold him, suddenly remembering it was Spain again… After a few minutes, or moments, he wasn’t sure, England was able to take an actual full breath. He shuddered and felt his limbs go numb, his vision coming back but everything still felt hazy. 

He leaned into Spain, listened to the song, let it bring him back, breathed in to match him. 

“Spain…?” England asked, craning his neck up to finally take him in. He wasn’t sure when he’d lost him… 

“Yes?" Spain asked softly, looking down at him. 

England met his gaze, close and intimate, and full of care. England felt the urge to cry again, but rather than centuries-old panic - stale but strong survival skills coming along with it - this time the sensation stemmed from the undeserved tenderness Spain was giving him. 

"I… I don't know what's wrong with me… what came over me. I'm sorry… you keep needing to help me when I'm like  _ this _ …" England muttered, nuzzling his head back to Spain's chest. "You're too good for me… I'm just trash," he sighed in conclusion. 

Spain smiled wryly, pulling him closer and cradling him. "After what happened… you're remarkably well put together." He took a chance, kissing his forehead, a small kiss that was barely there, nosing his hair from his face. "I'm glad I was able to fucking ram Alfanje through his stupid ass chest." He paused, grinning and shouting, "fuck you, frog bastard! I'll do it again for touching  _ my _ captive!" He wrapped his arms tighter around England, then his legs, making it impossible for him to escape. 

England startled from the sudden shout but then quickly smiled, melting into his touch, enjoying being held. He felt safe there, even if it was just temporary, it was something he’d been seeking without even knowing it. He didn’t know it could feel this way to be owned. 

“Your captive?” England said dryly, a small smile on his lips as he cuddled in closer to Spain’s steady heat, his even heartbeat. He didn’t deny it, it was just the first time he thought of it in that direction. 

Spain hummed, "I have you captive with my arms and legs, you'll never escape!" He smiled, kissing his nape. 

“There’d be no point, right? You’d just follow me even if I got away from you. Like a lovesick puppy…” England shivered feeling his lips on his neck; remembered that they were allowed to ask each other for things, that it was ok to be soft. “How… What did France tell you?”

Spain looked down, "he said… he trained you from a young age, to associate fear and intimacy and revival, and that I'd missed my chance with you. Basically…" Spain trailed off, resting his chin on England's shoulder and holding him close. "But I don't care, I don't care about  _ missing my chance,  _ or what he did-- well, I do. I care about what he did, it's disgusting and horrible and  _ ugh I hate him.  _ But I don't care about it in a way that would make me leave this alliance. If that makes sense…" He trailed off again, not wanting to say the wrong thing or push England away by accident. 

“That’s how he describes it? As fucking…  _ training _ ?” England said, feeling a rushing heat of sadness, embarrassment, shame. Knew it was true, that France had undeniable power over him no matter how many other countries he invaded, no matter how much wealth and treasure he accumulated, no matter how skilled with a sword, a gun, a cannon he got, no matter how vicious and cruel and power-hungry he became… France would always and forever be that shadowy beast in his mind, impressed unwillingly onto his young senses, imprinting there like a traumatic emotional scar. All France had to do was touch it, and it was like he was a child again. 

England sighed, tried not to think of it. 

“Guess it fucking worked…” he said, miserably. He wasn’t looking for sympathy, this was just the first moment he’d realized France’s plans from an adult’s perspective. The simple effectiveness of it. Why hadn’t he realized sooner? He was being manipulated. Had already been for centuries. 

Spain sighed sadly, "don't listen to him, you're more than what happened." He wrapped England up in his arms, tighter if it was possible. 

"How can I help?" 

“You already are,” England murmured softly. “Just be patient with me… I… I guess if it was training to make me easier to control… Well, I guess… Um, do you think you could retrain me?” England asked, face flushing with more embarrassment. “I- I know that’s not sexy… But I don’t… I don’t want him to keep having this power over me. I much prefer what I have with you,” England admitted. 

Spain smiled, "saying you prefer what you have with me is probably the sexiest thing you've ever said." He said softly, mumbling in his ear. "And how do you want… retraining? Just be free from his influence? Because I can help with that as much as you want me to." 

England sighed deeply, letting the last of the residual tension leave him. 

“Just knowing you want to help, that you’re not gonna use it against me, I think that’s enough for now,” England paused, remembered the first fluttering he felt from Spain’s lips against his skin. “That, and… Well, I really liked it when you kissed my neck the other night… T-that could be a-a place to start…” England said the last request trippingly, still unsteady in his trust. He knew Spain wouldn’t mock him for it, but it still made him feel pathetic to ask for it, that this was the level he was starting at… He just didn’t feel good enough, what right did he even have asking? But it was Spain… 

Spain smiled softly, "you want me to keep kissing your neck?" He asked, tone gentle, "because the other night was hot…" he admitted.

England felt his blush come back, hot enough to combust. 

“Y-yeah… It was… Please, don’t make me ask for it again… It’s so embarrassing…” England groaned, putting his face into his hands. 

Spain's smile grew wider, kissing his nape with a soft hum. "Is that permission to do it whenever I want to?" 

“I- I… I guess? If it’s you… And you don’t surprise me. I think I can handle that,” England breathed, shivering from the kisses against his nape. He rolled his head to the side, glanced back at Spain holding him, smiled softly. 

Spain hummed again, planting another kiss against his neck, "just in private then? You and I, nobody else…" then he realized something, "I want you to promise me something… if it ever becomes too much, if I push too far, hurt you in any way, then please tell me. If you don't want something, tell me." 

“I’ll try… To be honest, it’s my first time doing a lot of this kind of stuff. I mean, with someone who I actually want it from… I still don’t know what’s gonna set his, ugh,  _ training _ off, but, I’ll try… I know right now this feels good,” England said, wriggling and settling deeper into his arms, tracing his fingertips up and down his bicep. 

Spain smiled, resting his forehead against England's nape, feeling fuzzy and warm with what he said about him being someone he wants things from. 

"I have an idea…" 

“Yeah?” England asked, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He enjoyed their playful banter, their easy camaraderie, the pain-free love he offered. 

Spain traced circles on England's thigh, "yeah, I could mark you up then we'll go parade it in front of France later." He smirked. 

England chuckled, never would have thought of that, and decided he liked that idea. Even if it wasn’t completely true, it would show France he wasn’t afraid anymore, that he didn’t have that kind of power over him anymore. That he could do it without being small or drunk or forced. 

“Okay. Let’s do it,” England whispered, grinning to match Spain. “What are you waiting for? Mark me as yours.” He tilted his neck, showing his jugular. 

Spain nearly combusted, not expecting him to agree, he'd almost meant it as a joke, prepared scenarios in which he explained he was joking, in case it was received negatively. 

"My pleasure," he buried his face in England's neck, more out of embarrassment than anything else. He kissed along his pulse point, suckling a bruise against his skin. 

Again, England was bowled over by the sensation. He couldn’t comprehend how something so distasteful could actually feel good. He liked the person behind those lips, that’s all it took to make it pleasurable apparently. He moaned and sighed and brought his hand to tangle in Spain’s hair, holding him in place, scratching his scalp. 

“S-Spain… That feels good…” England moaned, legs starting to rub together. 

Spain moaned softly, face burning, and he moved to leave another mark on England's skin. 

"Fuck…" he cursed breathlessly, feeling the effect just as much as England. 

England wanted more, wanted him to never stop. He sat up and shifted around, straddling his legs and settling into his lap so they were facing each other. He felt the familiar spike of fear, a tendril of uncertainty when their eyes met and he felt like Spain could see inside him, all the badness still lodged there like a cavity. They were so close, he hadn’t let anyone in like this willingly before and despite the blush and the heat and the pleasure, the desire to continue, he had to duck his head and break eye contact. Leaning forward to rest his chin over the crook of his shoulder, take a breather from the potent intimacy. He wanted to give some back too, nuzzled in past his hair until he felt his warm neck against his nose. He laid a peck, then a stronger kiss, biting and sucking against Spain’s neck as well. 

Spain moaned softly, momentarily breaking his own connection with England before pulling him closer by his hips and biting gently against England's shoulder. His nails lightly dug lines into England's thighs through his pants. 

His actions grew more purposeful, laving against the bite before moving back up the column of his neck. His bites grew a little harder, the pressure behind his suckling also grew, and before he knew it he was pushing England back, laying him down gently and slotting on top of him to continue with what he was doing. 

England gasped, feeling a double shot of arousal being pinned down and ground against, Spain's mouth never stopping. He still felt scared but it was more of a nervous flutter rather than a burning fear inside him, it was something he could handle, and the hot panting was back. This time as a billow to stoke the internal fire, rather than the panicked unfulfilling breathing from before.

Spain moved to his throat, back to light kisses, hands skating down his front, and stopping at the waistline of his pants, waiting for a moment for any refusal or want for more. 

He looked up at England, meeting his eyes, fingers toying with the already undone laces, twirling the leather around his fingers. 

England felt like he was a child again, but this time in a good way. The lack of control willingly given to someone who would take care of him, someone he trusted. He was hard, his dick throbbing beneath Spain’s weight, hips shifting to get closer. He moaned and grasped and gasped and let his legs fall wide, mouth, neck, all of it open. 

“Please, please, Spain… I- it feels nice…” 

Spain flushed, he wasn't sure what to do, after such a traumatic experience for both of them, he doubted neither of them wanted to take it up the ass. Not so soon. He knew his own still hurt, didn't want to chance England's still hurting…

He began undressing England, slipping his shirt down his arms. 

"What do you want?" He asked gently, he was aching as well, but he didn't want to rush into anything that'd destroy the fragile tendrils of trust between them. 

England trembled, feeling the vibration of his words, the weight of the request. 

“I, uh, do… Do you… want to kiss me? I mean… you know, on the mouth?” England asked tentatively, hands twisting nervously in Spain’s shirt, looking away until he heard an answer. He wasn’t sure what it would unlock, how it would feel, but Spain already knew so what could be the harm in trying? He’d been avoiding it because of the weakness it engendered in him, but that didn’t matter with Spain. He was allowed to be weak, allowed to be vulnerable. Plus, his first attempt at kissing Spain instead of the other way around had been during that nightmarish assault. He wanted to make it right, do it differently.

"I… Don't want to hurt you." Spain admitted, looking down, "don't want to… drag up the bad times." He said honestly, "if  _ you  _ want me to, then, of course, I want to. But if you don't then that's okay too." 

England sighed, for once not shoving Spain away, instead he tried to explain his twisted inner workings. 

“That’s what I’m afraid of… That he’s always lurking there, even when I feel like I want it. In fact, I sometimes feel it the most then. W-when I let someone else lead… When it feels good, out of control… Sometimes it just shifts and I’m back at his house. Even if it’s just for a second, and that’s always terrifying. So… What do I do? When… I want it… And I know that by wanting it I’ll probably end up back there…? I don’t expect you to have the answer, I just… wanted to warn you. Because I  _ do  _ want it, I can actually say that with certainty…” England trailed off, feeling like he’d said too much. God, why did it have to be so complicated? 

Spain nodded, "Then I'll just take it slow? Tell me if it gets too much..." He cupped England's cheek in one hand and stroked his thumb over his cheek. Closing the distance between them in a slow, barely-there kiss, not wanting to push too far too fast. 

England closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and held himself perfectly still as he felt Spain’s lips touch to his. He tried to stay present, to remember where he was, who he was with, to not fade into that tiny grey room, to not see a pixelated shadow over him, but just Spain. Warm and soft and caring and watching him for a sign. England moaned and moved his lips against Spain’s mouth, feeling how chapped his were, how steady and deliberately Spain kissed him, and he felt the old bloom of pleasure-danger open up inside him and he had to breathe hard through his nose, tell himself over and over - it’s ok, it’s Spain, it’s ok, it’s Spain, it’s ok… 

It seemed to work. He still felt like he might want to run at any second, but he knew where he was and who was kissing him - that he wanted it and it felt good. That was better than before. He didn’t need to fawn over him, he didn’t need to hide from him. He was just there, waiting and caring. 

Spain deepened the kiss ever so slightly, nosing the tip of England's nose and kissing him again, longer this time, an ever so teasing lick along his bottom lip, his fingers roaming up into his hair and lightly pulling at sandy strands. 

England moved to meet him, his lips wet and smoother now, still self-conscious about everything he’d just admitted but knowing Spain wouldn’t blame him for it. He moaned when he felt the slide of Spain’s tongue against his lip, opening to let him inside, arching into his touch when he felt hands tangle into his hair. It felt so, so good - like sparks and fire and alcohol but he was totally sober. Could actually feel it all. He snuck his tongue out to touch Spain’s feeling a bit bolder since nothing was caving in, and moaned aloud when he felt Spain respond and swirl his tongue more aggressively into his mouth. 

Spain felt his face burning, still teasing his hair while he kissed him deeper still. He could feel England's tongue against his own, taste something just like England, on his palette, on his tongue, on his teeth, everywhere tasted like  _ England _ and he moaned, a full-body shiver holding him tightly. He ground against England, reminding him that it was all of them, not just their lips, that were connected in that moment. 

England could barely process everything happening, it felt more intense than it should have, perhaps because he’d never allowed himself to go this far, and when Spain started grinding against him as they kissed, England felt his mind stutter and go completely blank with the feeling. He wasn’t overthinking anymore, could barely think at all, and it was purely instinctual when he bucked up to meet Spain’s motion. Their hard dicks sliding together, even through the fabric, felt so amazing that England was losing control. He turned his head away, breaking the kiss, needing a moment to pant. His hands shifted to Spain’s hips to keep him moving, reassuring him he was still there, that he still wanted it.

“S-Spainnn…” England gasped, eyes hooded, glancing back at him from his side view. 

Spain blushed, biting his lip before repeating his earlier question, lust lacing his tone. "What do you want?" 

“I- I- I want you to keep… Keep kissing me…” England said the last part as a barely audible whisper, closing his eyes with his head to the side. He took a few deep breaths, finding himself again. “It… Feels different than usual…” England explained, blushing furiously. He turned back to shudder in Spain’s gaze, feeling overwhelmed by him being so close. He was pinned down but it felt  _ right _ . 

Spain more than happily agreed, closing his mouth over England's again and immediately going deeper, their tongues dancing for dominance with lustful sparks flitting through Spain's body. He moaned against England's lips, returning to his grinding as well. He felt like a horny teenager all over again, rutting against England through his clothes and tongues intertwined. He'd never felt more alive. 

England felt it too, was more certain of it this time, didn’t question or hesitate. Spain was leading him and he happily followed, hips tilting up to meet his thrusts, tongue surging after Spain’s licking against his mouth, swiping against his lips while whimpering and twitching and gasping beneath him. Why had he been afraid of this? It was completely different. 

That was the thought circling his brain when he felt a familiar pleasing pressure. He groaned, shook, kissed Spain desperately, hand tangling against his hair, holding him in place, tongues circling around and around each other, his hips jumping up even more feverishly. He… he was about to cum. From kissing… and grinding… 

He should have felt mortified at the idea but he couldn’t form a thought as his unexpected orgasm surged through his loins, slamming his hips against Spain’s and that delicious friction there, screaming into his mouth as the pleasure streaked through him. His cock throbbed and spurted in his pants, trapped beneath his clothes, beneath Spain’s pleasant weight. He felt like they’d exorcised a demon for how intense it was; and perhaps, in a sense, they had. England broke away from the kiss and flopped to the bed breathing hard. 

It took him a moment to come back to his senses. 

“I… I just… I’m sorry, I don’t know… What came over me…” England said, still not fully down from his high. 

Spain immediately pressed a finger to England's lips, shushing him quietly, "do not apologize for that - that was hot." He blushed, kissing his cheek and readjusting himself on top of England. He was still hard, arguably more so now, but at the moment he didn't care. 

England just breathed, tried to get back to himself, and once he felt more normal again, he immediately realized Spain was still hard. He smiled, turning to look up at Spain still braced over him. 

“Your turn. What do you want?” England asked, his voice a lusty husky growl. 

Spain somehow blushed more, muttering, "I- I don't know…" then after a moment he whispered, "you." Eyes dark and needy. "However you want." 

England wanted to keep it in this strange floaty, over the clothes place. It felt delectable, like reprogramming, and he wanted to give in the same way. See if it would work. 

“Can I just… use my hand?” England asked meekly, hoping it would be enough. 

Spain smiled softly, reassuringly, "you can do whatever you want." 

“O-okay… Well, please excuse me then…” England said softly, sincerely, feeling the need to be oddly polite. He was so awkward but didn’t run away in the face of it, leaning up to bite and lick at Spain’s neck, his hand snaking over his chest, under his shirt, thumbing his nipples, quickly moving south. England’s other hand gripped his hair at the nape, grounding himself, holding Spain’s head where he wanted it. While he bit and sucked and laid a practical choker necklace of bruises around Spain’s neck, his right hand was rubbing rapidly over the thick hardon under Spain’s pants, the outline of it stretching the tight pants, made the attention all the more intense and pressurized. 

Spain moaned, letting England do what he wanted, letting him guide his body and play him like a fine instrument. The familiar warmth in his belly was quick to manifest, and as he toppled over the edge he came with England's name on his lips. 

"A-- England…!" He panted, but panic ran through his veins at the almost-slip up, heart racing in his chest from his orgasm  _ and _ unpleasant fear, detracting from his enjoyment his body jolted and tensed. It felt like an electric shock to his system, had he really nearly just…? It rang through his head like the sound of the bells inside the Catedral de la Santa Creu i Santa Eulàlia in Barcelona. 

_ Arthur. _

_ Arthur. _

_ Arthur… _

England felt delighted and somewhat proud when he felt Spain jerking and gasping in pleasure over him, pressing his thigh up to increase the pressure as his hand kept rubbing. Spain was looking right at him when the orgasm crested through him, but when his eyes fluttered closed in bliss England thought for a second that he had been about to say something else, something other than  _ England _ . 

England watched Spain relax from the release, feeling something small and cold twisting in his gut. His paranoia was back in full swing and he immediately assumed he’d heard Spain’s true feelings, his true desire. He’d been thinking of  _ Andorra _ , been about to shout his name as England made him cum. England frowned, a bitter part of him not surprised, he was just being used for practice, what else was new? But the new assumption didn’t hurt any less. He’d trusted Spain… But that was stupid of him. It was his fault for not noticing. How pathetic, coming in second even in Spain’s heart. 

“Get off me, you dog,” England huffed, shoving Spain to the side off of him and sitting up. 

Spain could sense that something had changed… had he heard the slip-up and got angry about it? The room felt cold and broody, rather than the warmth of the intimacy a few nights prior…

"Are you okay?" He asked, looking at him with concerned eyes. 

“I don’t know what I expected… Spain, just leave me alone. I’ve got a ship to captain,” England stood up and started to walk away, bracing himself against the trickling stinging in his chest. He wasn’t going to cry, not over that prick. He’d let him too far in and England wasn’t going to repeat the same mistake twice. He’d put up double-thick walls from now on. 

Spain remained seated on the bed, watching him go. Then he jumped up. "W-- Wait!!" He followed England. "What the hell?" 

England was growing angrier by the second. 

“Don’t act dumb, Spain. I see what’s happening here and you can forget about it. I’m not some fool you can practice on. I’m not that desperate,” England fumed, marching out of the captain’s quarters, looking around for his navigator. 

"Wha--  _ practice on? _ What are you talking about?" Spain asked indignantly, feeling his heart sink in his chest, had it really come across that way? 

He slowed his pace, watching England press on. He'd fucked up. 

\----

_ Lucía sat on the plush pillows framing the window seat, looking out across an expanse of dusted snow-covered greenery and stoned pathways, watching ladies of the court come and go from the chateau, with their arms linked into the gentlemans’. She sneered, pathetic.  _

_ She rested her forehead against the window, leaving a smudge from her skin, cold glass fogging up with her body heat and breath, and she looked down her nose at the pale people outside.  _

_ Her time here had been short, but she’d quickly learned her standing, feeling nothing but rejection from the women around her, and looks of disgust from the men… she’d grown ashamed of herself, over her skin, her hair, the scars she wore, the loss of her family and the stinging rejection she experienced in the chateau. She hated to admit it, but she’d internalized the hatred they felt for her, felt it for herself. Pure and simple.  _

_ She was different. _

_ Different was bad.  _

_ So she was bad.  _

_ The only one who didn’t seem to dislike her or hold her with contempt was the one person she despised the most, the man she’d come to know as Francis, representative of France, an immortal. He’d been fighting for France for hundreds of years, and from fleeting conversations, she’d learned there was also an England, making her wonder how many other countries had immortal representatives, and if they did, then where was Andorra? Nobody fought for them... Late at night, her mind would turn, would run away with ideas of somehow discovering how to become a representative for her dwindling country and fight for their freedom.  _

_ A cough startled her, her head snapping to look behind her, at the door, at the man there.  _

_ “Lucille.”  _

_ “Francis.” She returned, standing up and facing him fully.  _

_ When he chuckled it sent shivers down her spine, and his fingers played with the gun at his hip.  _

_ “Come,” he motioned for her, “we begin your training.”  _

_ “Training?”  _

_ “As you are, you’re dangerous, untamed and a deadweight I cannot lift. That’s why you’re going to learn to fight for me.”  _

_ She scowled, brows knitting together, and felt the fight within her grow as he said, “no matter how long it takes.”  _

Lucille came out of her memory and looked at France, lying lifeless across the brig from her. She bit her lip and curled in on herself and wondered what was in store for them next. What did England have planned? 

She closed her eyes, listening to the creaking, and felt a water droplet hit the top of her head. Under the deck was where she felt most nauseous, not able to see her surroundings, move freely, it reminded her of her room on France’s ship. She only went in there when it was required of her to do so. It reminded her of a lot of things…

_ She lunged forward, being blocked by France’s own parry. Taking a few steps back she reassessed the situation, with a scowl she ran forward, slicing on the inside line of France’s defense.  _

_ “Lovely Prime!” France smirked, his gaze and words condescending.  _

_ Lucía snarled, sweeping his legs from under him.  _

_ He toppled to the floor and she smirked triumphantly… That’d teach him.  _

_ France laid on the ground looking surprised for only a moment before he brought his hand to his head and started laughing.  _

_ "My dear… if you're going to fight like a back alley brawler then you need to follow through," France grunted as he sat up, getting up to his haunches before spinning in the ball of his foot, the other extended in a low sweep she didn't see coming. He laughed again watching her fall, a mess of curls and curses. France stood towering over her and reached out his hand to her to help her back up.  _

_ She slapped his hand away, rolling over to push herself up, but France was right there, kicked her arms right when she tried to brace to rise. She fell back to the floor with a short cry.  _

_ "Take my hand, Lucille," France said quietly, extending it again. _

_ She scowled, face twisted before she swatted his hand away and started to stand on her own. France kicked her again, this time putting a boot between her shoulders.  _

_ "Take my hand, it's the only way you're getting up again," France warned. _

_ She reluctantly reached for his hand but didn’t allow him to pull her up. She did that herself. Allowing him to do minimal work in helping her stand up. With a frown, she snatched her hand free once she was standing.  _

_ “It’s Lucía.” She said curtly. She was getting sick of the name Lucille.  _

_ France smiled indulgently.  _

_ "Of course, Lucille. Now, my sweet, I think that's enough training for one day, don't you? Go take a bath and rinse away all this struggle," France said with another saccharine smile. _

_ “Gladly.” She hissed, stomping from the room and making her way down winding corridors to the bathroom, even this space was grand, cherubs marked the coving around the room, carved from something Lucía didn’t even recognize, the doors were much like the doors elsewhere in the chateau, white with gold lining and the walls were painted a soft turquoise, white coving and ceiling, white skirting boards almost as high as her knees and ivory-toned tiles under her feet were slippery with the shoes she wore.  _

_ She wouldn’t have this problem if she was allowed to be barefooted.  _

_ She stopped in front of the bath, warm water already in place and essential oils changing the water to a subtle off-white orange. She removed her shoes and ripped the socks from under the britches and took them off too, her feet blistered from the hard leather shoes rubbing against her heels, toes, and arch of her foot. Working the intricate lacing on the britches and slipping them down her legs, she pulled the shirt over his head, curls billowing around her features as she finally broke free.  _

_ She removed her undergarments before climbing into the water, leaving her clothes scattered gracelessly along the floor. She sat in the bathtub, arms crossed over her chest. If he wanted her to clean, she’d put it off for as long as she could.  _

_ Without a knock, without even a warning, France opened the door to her bathroom and strode inside without any qualms.  _

_ "Good, you already got started. I thought I'd have to strip you myself," France said amused. He didn't ogle her naked body but his eyes did linger in the corners, tracing her curves.  _

_ She startled when he entered the room, looking over to him and scowling, sinking further into the water wishing more than anything that there were bubbles to help hide her body. But there weren’t, and she cursed.  _

_ “What do you want? What are you doing in here? Get out!” She scooped water into her hand and thrashed it over the edge of the bath in his direction. _

_ "I'm here to help you wash, and no, I'm not leaving. No matter how much water you splash," France replied airily. He went over to a tall narrow cabinet, grabbing a washcloth and without any fanfare he stepped over and grabbed her wrist, extending her arm and rubbing it down with the warm water.  _

_ “Hey!” She tried to struggle free from his grasp, tried to free her arm with little success. “I can do that myself!”  _

_ “That doesn’t mean you get to. Can’t have my little refugee drowning herself in the bath, right?” France hummed as he scrubbed, gentle but unavoidable. He stroked over her shoulders, moved her hair to the side so he could sweep wide circles across her back, and then down her right arm. He stepped around the tub to her front, reached forward toward her neck to continue from there.  _

_ She crossed her arms over her chest, tucking her hands under her arms.  _

_ "I-- I can do it…!"  _

_ “I know, I know, but I’m here to help…” France said smoothly, completely ignoring her protests. He didn’t force her arms away from her chest, but he did hover, he did drag the washcloth under her chin, over top her arms, just brushing across the barely-present cleavage. He scrubbed thoroughly under her arms, smiling when she squirmed, the washcloth dipping below the water to rub circles over her belly, her waist, her hips, over the top of her thighs. He stroked down her legs, her feet, wiping his way back up until he reached between her thighs, the final place he hadn’t touched. His eyes were steady, calm, but observed everything, stripping her bare where she covered, delving into where she didn’t.  _

_ Lucía frowned, was quick to stand in the bath, lowering her arms and smacking his hand away.  _

_ “I’d sooner drown you than myself,” she hissed, gripping his hair and tugging his head to the side, “I’m not scared of you.” she let go, pushing him back with the force and stepping out of the bath. She wrapped a towel around her body and turned to look at him. “I don’t need you in any way, shape or form, remember that.”  _

_ France smiled indulgently from where she’d shoved him, his eyes alight with delighted passion.  _

_ “Oh,  _ _ chérie _ _ , you don’t need to be afraid of me, that’s the last thing I want. However, I do know that you will need me. Whether you realize it now or not,” France smirked with a knowing smile. “When you can’t stand it anymore, you know you can always come to me. I’ll listen. I’ll be there,” France said seriously. He stood up and came closer, a head above her. “You’re beautiful, you know that, right?” France said softly, his eyes drinking in her wet skin.  _

_ “I won’t need you,” she said determinedly, “never.” Then she bristled at the compliment, bristled at him moving closer, tempted to take a step back. But she didn’t, she was unsure what to think as he called her beautiful. She smirked, raising her chin to look him square in the eyes, fists clenched at her sides. “I know.”  _

_ France smiled more deeply.  _

_ “Good, don’t forget it. No matter what others may say,” he murmured, stepping aside and giving her room finally.  _

_ She eyed him distrustfully, turning her back to him so she could get dressed again, she watched him through the corner of her eye. She struggled into her undergarments under the towel, once in them she let the soft fabric fall away and she continued to get dressed.  _

_ France silently watched her. Didn’t try to touch but his eyes never left her.  _

_ \---- _

_ Lucille left the grand hall with embarrassed tears streaming down her face, she should’ve known. She stomped down the hall, the only thing muffling her steps being the expensive rug under her feet.  _

_ When the court ladies had approached her, offered her a dress, and to join them in their weekly meeting in the grand hall, she’d stupidly thought they might’ve had a change of heart; finally accepted her. Instead, she wandered through the corridors, makeup smeared down her face and dark olive streaks peeking through blanched features where her tears fell.  _

_ Her dress was purple, an awful mauve color that did nothing for her complexion but she hadn't complained out of sheer joy that they were including her. She hugged her waist, and as she walked through the darkened hallways she felt her rage growing. She stopped at a dead-end, looking at the expensive vase on the column and she tipped the column in her anger. The vase fell to the floor, the smash echoing through the chateau and she picked up a piece of the pottery, slicing the dress to shreds. She screamed, kicking her shoes off and running through the corridors aimlessly, gracelessly, freely.  _

_ Finally, she paused outside a door.  _

_ France’s door.  _

_ France was on the bed, laid out straight and long with a thin-stemmed wine glass clutched in his hand. He didn’t seem surprised to see Lucille or the state of her makeup, her dress, her emotions.  _

_ “My lovely Lucille, what a pleasure to see you at this hour. Whatever is the matter? Come, sit, I’ll pour you a glass and you can tell me everything,” France almost seemed to gloat, nothing but cheery smiles and a welcoming embrace she could choose or not.  _

_ She hesitated in the doorway, she’d been so stubborn, adamant that he wouldn’t win, that she wouldn’t need him. But her pride was already in tatters for believing the court ladies in the first place. She closed her eyes, took a shaky breath, and stepped inside.  _

_ “Come closer darling, I won’t bite. My dear, what happened to your dress?” France asked with concern, extending an arm to her.  _

_ “Those foolish court ladies.” She hissed with disdain. “Then I broke a vase and cut up their precious dress with the pieces.”  _

_ France laughed, amused, charming. “Their fashion sense determines their loyalties. Of course, they would be jealous of a wild rose such as yourself. You don’t have to try as hard as the others, Lucille, and they hate you for it. I, however, do not. Please, come sit with me… I have another glass here. Have you ever had a 20-year-old bottle?” _

_ She shook her head, “no, I haven’t.” She stepped closer, sitting down on the bed beside him.  _

_ “Then I shall educate you. Here,” France handed her a delicate glass and reached for the jungle-green bottle, pouring carefully until it was half full with a dry red wine. “Now, just swirl it around a bit, let the air hit it. Breathe in and smell it, appreciate it, what do you notice?” France leaned closer, watched her intently. _

_ Lucille did as she was told, watching the wine swirl around the glass, and then brought the glass to her nose and paused, “this is pointless.”  _

_ France’s eyes crinkled in amusement.  _

_ “It’s not pointless. Is a flower pointless? Is a painting pointless? Is a lover’s touch pointless? No! You just need to increase your sensitivity to the finer things of life. You know I can show you, I’ve offered many times…” France trailed off and let the back of his fingers trail up the outer edge of the arm.  _

_ “It is pointless when you can’t smell a thing!” She snapped, glaring at him and moving to stand, she was still irate, furious, and upset, and she emptied her glass on France, splashing the wine down the front of his clothes and setting the empty glass on the chest of drawers.  _

_ France stood, brushing his shirt down.  _

_ “Ah, see? Now that was a waste. Just as it was a waste for those court ladies to treat you like that. Think you can learn, where they cannot?” France asked, turning her rebellion into a lesson. “You truly cannot smell, or was that also you being overly dramatic?” France asked, taking an appreciative sip from his own glass.  _

_ Lucille's eyes narrowed, and she glowered at him. But her voice cracked under his scrutiny.  _

_ "I haven't been able to smell since you invaded Andorra and killed my family!"  _

_ France chuckled, walking closer and picked up the empty glass. “Being a representative of a country I have to take responsibility for the actions of my people. It’s a heavy burden to bear… Please know that if it was actually me, not France, but me personally… Francis… Then I promise you I never would have harmed your family. There is a fatal flaw having to follow the wishes of humans…” France trailed off, looking sad, wistful. He poured wine into the glass, a smaller amount, and handed it to her again.  _

_ “I have learned over the years… If you can’t do something, find an alternative. If you can’t smell, then taste…” France drank her in, not stepping away, standing over her holding his cup up as well. “Trust me, you won’t regret it,” he said, bringing the glass to his lips.  _

_ Lucille watched, watched as he readied himself to drink. Finally, her gaze lowered and she looked at her glass of wine.  _

_ She was about to say something. About to retort, but what was the point? He was the only person in the whole chateau, probably the whole of France, who didn't hate her for her appearance and her manners, or lack thereof… he was the only person to, well, treat her like a human. She closed her eyes. _

_ A small nod and she brought the drink to her own lips. An even smaller sip of wine.  _

_ He touched her hair, a small stroke she wouldn't notice if she wasn't watching him closely.  _

_ "There, see? How does it taste?" _

_ She shrugged, small and slow. She didn’t understand wine tasting, appreciating, it was something the highbrow did, she’d seen it in the tavern, but only fleetingly, more often than not people just wanted to get absolutely sloshed, didn’t care what they drank.  _

_ “I-- I don’t know.”  _

_ "Hmmm, focus on it, let it linger on your tongue, tell me how it tastes…" France said, stepping closer, both hands ghosting over her arms. _

_ "Drink deeply, my beauty," France murmured. _

_ Lucille took another sip, bigger this time, keeping her eyes closed as she focused on the drink… it was… dry? Another sip, a tang of florals… a third sip, and there was something else, something she couldn’t identify.  _

_ "That's right, my love, you deserve so much more. You're better than those who would hurt you," France touched her gently, stepped even closer so she was forced to step back. "Sit, please, relax," her legs hit his bed.  _

_ When her legs hit the side of his bed she almost fell gracelessly onto the plush fabrics. But she caught herself, one hand stopping her from falling onto her back, the other still holding a nearly empty glass. She sat down, looking at the inside of her glass and feeling warm. Almost too warm.  _

_ He settled onto the bed next to her. Watched as she sipped at the glass again. _

_ "You should know, it's a French wine. But the spice you're tasting actually comes from your country. Your province even. It may have even come from your very family's fields…" France purred, stroking her arms, looking into her dilated brown eyes.  _

_ The sudden talk of her family left her feeling hollow, the spice he was talking about… it grew as tall as her, stems thick and leaves large, but you had to let them dry out, shrivel up before you could use them. She remembered chasing her sisters through the fields of it, not grown by her family specifically but grew in the very fields the rest of their crops were. She remembered her father's stark warning.  _ Never  _ consume the spice.  _

_ Suddenly the wine tasted bitter, and she placed the almost empty glass on the bedside drawers again, looking down at her hands in her lap and feeling her vision blur.  _

_ She blinked rapidly, but the blur didn't go away, so it wasn't tears… then what was it?  _

_ She felt warm, almost hot, a tingling in her extremities and a fluttering in her chest. _

_ France leaned over her and breathed in deeply over her neck, her face, her chest, hovering just a few inches over her.  _

_ "Ahh, the anticipation is the best… Savoring before touching, smelling before tasting… It's a shame you can't smell… But tell me, if you can, how do you feel my love? It should be in your system by now." France said. _

_ "In my… system?" She questioned, looking at France, brows furrowed but her eyes lacking their usual light, the usual fire that resided there. Instead, she remembered what France had asked… _

_ "I… feel," she fidgeted, "hot."  _

_ "Good… Very good. That's just right. Now, do you want me to touch you?" France asked but lightly touched the back of his fingers along her arms without waiting for an answer, making the light contact part of the question, knowing the sparks it would set off. _

_ She shivered at the touch, feeling her face heating up and her thought processes slowing down. Touch her… the featherlight pressure of his hands against her arms made the question all the more enticing.  _

_ "Y-- Yes…" she trembled.  _

_ "Good… Then I shall do as you wish, my precious flower…" France said with a low chuckle, satisfied with his conquest. Making her ask for it always made it easier. Those words unlocked everything, freed him of responsibility. Though he would still treat her right, show her exactly how spectacular her first time could be. _

_ "Just relax, I'll take care of you…"  _

_ Watching him with hazy eyes left her worrying her lip between her teeth. France came closer and loomed over her, smiling before descending, capturing her lips in her first kiss. He started chastely, but very quickly it morphed to his favorite namesake, French kissing, and her moans and helpless bonelessness made her all the more enticing. His hand snaked under her shirt, moved aside her bralette, cupped the budding breasts there, thumb twitching over her brown peaked nipples. _

Lucille jolted awake… shit. 

She rested her head in her hand and sunk against the wall of the brig. That’d been her first time… 

Now she was older, wiser, and knew how to wrap the nation around her little finger. Although she wasn’t stupid, he was still one-hundred percent in control of their dynamic. 

But she’d never forgotten the first time she’d got one up on him for the first time…

_ She was serving a meal for France and the other aristocrats of the court, other courts, at least fifty people lining the table with France at the head. He beckoned for her to begin filling glasses, so she did just that, traveling around the table with a male attendant carrying decanters of wine while she poured.  _

_ Once around the table, she returned to France’s side. Popping the glass stopper from the decanter and pouring him a drink. But unlike the rest, this decanter was full of Andorran spice, stewing for hours before the leaves were removed and it looked just like any ordinary wine. _

_ She expertly took the decanter away and took her place by the drinks cabinet for anyone who wanted more drinks.  _

_ She’d been asked to serve, but she’d be the one coming out on top if all went to plan.  _

_ France was going on and on, giving a small speech before raising his glass in a toast, the rest of the table followed, all the wine floating in the air on extended arms. He brought the glass to his lips and drank deeply, swallowing with gusto. He smiled when he finished, sat back down, began conversing with the men around him. The spice, however, didn’t take long to do its work. Within a minute his face began to heat up, a strange blush taking over his visage. France grabbed the table, frowned, and looked down at himself as if expecting to see something different. He put his hand to his chest, felt the way his heart raced, the way the lights danced and shimmered and his skin felt a size too tight. He set his glass down and stared at it for a moment before craning around to shoot Lucille a look over by the wine.  _

_ He said something to the men around him, they all looked concerned for a moment but he waved it off and stood up with a gracious smile, leaving the table with his first course untouched. He strode quickly over to Lucille, a constrained look on his features.  _

_ Lucille smiled widely, eyes alight with a mischievous and airy amusement.  _

_ “Is everything okay, Francis?” She asked knowingly.  _

_ “Such a naughty girl… I suppose I shouldn’t have shown you that trick… Still, you have to take responsibility. Follow me,” France said, legs already feeling weak.  _

_ Lucille observed him with keen eyes, noticing the way his legs trembled, “are you sure you can walk?” She teased, falling into step behind him as they left the room.  _

_ “I know you certainly won’t be able to, by the time I’m done with you…” France breathed. He wanted to ravish her like he usually did, but the spice made him feel lethargic, uncoordinated, horny. There was also something different about her, she’d never dared to go so far before… Perhaps he was rubbing off on her. He smiled to himself as they reached his bedroom, and not a moment too soon. He flopped himself face-up on the bed, groaning and writhing in his clothes for a moment. God, he felt out of control…  _

_ Lucille stood at the door, big mistake leaving her to shut it. She didn’t. Instead, she left it open, just a smidge. Enough for anyone in the corridor to peer in and see, including the ladies of the court. She wondered if they’d ever see him in the same way if she got her way.  _

_ She moved to the bed, standing beside France and watching him writhe. She grinned.  _

_ “Come, Lucille, you knew what the spice does, next time you want me you only have to say the word,” France peeled his shirt open, buttons fumbled off, hips arching in his too-tight pants. “Ah, please, help me with these clothes my dear.”  _

_ She climbed onto the bed, still wearing her dress and concealing what was beneath it. She grinned wider, ripping his pants down his legs but leaving them wrapped around his ankles, shucking his shirt from his body but leaving it around his forearms.  _

_ She hummed, straddling him, leading him into a false sense of security and leaving nothing to chance.  _

_ France looked up at her, curls wild, dress wide and puffy, hiding her toned tanned body beneath. “G-good girl… I trained you well, didn’t I? Are you going to ride me to show me your gratitude?” France panted, hips jerking up against her, trying to move his hard dick over her skin.  _

_ With a smirk, she reached under her dress, taking her chance and removing the dildo from where she’d stashed it in the sheath strapped to her leg. She rocked her hips, keeping up the charade as she blindly felt past his dick, between his leg, probing for his hole with her fingers. She found it and shifted back over his thighs, spreading his legs to get closer. Pressing the tip of the dildo against his ass, she let him feel the girth for a moment before teasing him with it, pushing inside slowly, unsure of how to go about the next part, but no less deterred, she wasn’t sure of a lot of things, but it didn’t stop her trying.  _

_ France’s eyes widened when he felt her nimble fingers against his ass. He’d asked her to finger him once or twice while servicing him, so it wasn’t that unexpected she would do it unprompted. What was surprising, however, was the warm blunt head of something hard, something far larger than fingers pressed to his entrance and then pushing hard against him. He gasped and cried out, legs scrambling. _

_ “L-Lucille! Wait! If you do that… Y-you need to use something for lubrication… How did you - what are you even…” then France trailed off in a helpless groan, trembling against the bed and spreading his legs even wider. He couldn’t articulate his words, felt shocked and impressed but mostly just incredibly turned on that she’d turned the tables like this. With his shirt still tangling his wrists together, he pointed to the shelf inlaid on his headboard, indicating a small green tin box. “There-” France shuddered, his ass already accepting her.  _

_ She felt the moment of breaching his rim, pausing to look him in the eyes.  _

_ “Why? You’re already taking it so well~” She cooed. Her fingers teased his entrance as well, stroking the stretched out puckered flesh. _

_ “Ah, Lucille…” France couldn’t deny it. Despite the burn and shock from taking it so suddenly, he still wanted more. Even if it hurt, the fact it was Lucille fucking him, the spice singing its siren call in his veins, her eyes glowing like hot coals, he happily submitted to her desires, the pain and lack of lubrication hardly seemed important. He spread his legs wider, bending at the knees and bringing them up to fully bare his hole for her. “Please, fuck me, darling…”  _

_ Lucille was taken aback by his willingness to submit. She intended this as punishment, revenge for how he used her - she’d expected him to cry and beg her not to fuck him like a woman. She didn’t know the levels of perversion France could sink to and was surprised to realize he actually enjoyed it. He was hard despite shoving a dildo up his ass. So much for punishment… she thought, heat running through her as she heard France beg for more.  _

_ She bit her lip and pushed the dildo further in, watching as it sank into his body. She leaned in closer as well, anchoring herself between his legs and pressing her pelvis in so she could move the dildo from there. She glanced at the box France had pointed to and dipped a finger in, bringing out a glob of grease. She felt yet another thrill of heat and pleasure work through her system, realizing what it was for.  _

_ “Ah, I see, so you like to take it like a woman. I’ll get you wet like one too…” Lucille murmured, wiping the grease on the base of the dildo, letting the thrusting movement smear it around for her. Holding it with a fist, ramming her hips against his, and now sliding more easily and wetly, she felt the power in topping. France’s head was thrown back, hair spread like blond bird wings around him, his eyes a deep dark blue, an ocean cave that could swallow all of her vengeful desires.  _

Lucille smirked, looking over at his lifeless body. That had been the moment their dynamic had changed forever and she was living for it. She wondered if their dynamic would change again now she was a nation, she’d have to ask him when he finally awoke. 

She moved closer, kneeling beside him, and stroking his hair from his face. She was still pissed that he’d died on her, dealt the final blow and killed himself, leaving her bloodied and bruised and cut up and at England and Spain’s mercy. She reared her hand back and slapped his cheek, not expecting anything from him other than a limp movement of his head. 

She sighed, “I hate you sometimes…” 

France shuddered, eyes cracking open just slightly as his head shook from the blow. 

“Yes, well… Who doesn’t?” France grimaced, struggling to sit up. He gasped in pain and fell back against the wall, still too injured to move properly. “Lucille,” he said simply. Eyes glancing up to meet hers. 

She startled, moving to stand quickly and look at him with wide eyes.

"Francis." She returned, tone indifferent. 

France chuckled, winced from the pain it caused, “So what’s your next step? Take me out, get captured and tortured and locked up. This is how you intended your plan to go, right? You actually  _ had _ a plan I assume? Or did you just throw away your chance because of your emotions? I always tell you - you have to keep yourself under control or others will do it for you,” France said through gritted teeth.

"I don't need a lecture from the likes of  _ you. _ " Lucille snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. "If I kill you then I'd be doing England a fucking favor." 

“And Spain too,” he replied, not intimidated by her typical death threats. They were as common as sweet nothings between them. 

She scowled, brows furrowing and nostrils flaring, lips pinching into a tight line. "I'd be doing everyone a favor." 

“Yes, but it wouldn’t be very strategic. Now be quiet, I need to focus,” France closed his eyes and felt out with his senses, listened to his own heartbeat and followed it sounds outside of himself, directed toward his homeland. He could sense how far they were from his country and he’d set their course for the south of France. It seemed they were still heading closer.

“Well, that’s good at least. The closer we get, the stronger I am. Plus I have an armada in the south sea, he’s sailing right into my men,” France chuckled slightly. 

Lucille huffed indignantly, looking away and walking to the bars of the brig. She stared at the lock, closing her eyes and sighing. 

She didn't see a point in trying to kill him now, they were too close to France. 

"Why hasn't he changed the course yet? We've been down here for hours…" 

“Well, I may have bribed his navigator. England’s too preoccupied by Spain flirting with him to notice,” France gloated. “There’s always someone pissed at him, it’s easy to sow distrust around someone who doesn’t trust anyone. See Lucille? You have to learn when to use force, and when it would be better to use words, his own past against him.” He glanced at her meaningfully. 

She didn't return the gaze, instead opting to stare at the bars of the brig. She looked up, then down to the floor, noticing one of the bars partially out of its position. 

Oh? 

She looked at France, still lying still and clutching at his torso. 

She tested the give of the bar and once satisfied, she gave it a hard kick, watching the metal splinter the floor and send wood flying as she dislodged it. 

"I know exactly when to use force and when to use words. But words don't break bars, do they?" 

France looked up when he heard the wood splinter and crack and his face broke out into a grin. 

"Not only does he do an appalling job maintaining the relationships around him, but he's also terrible at physical maintenance! Didn't even thoroughly check the brig after Spain's men were in here!" France clutched at his chest, knew he could get up and help if necessary but wanted to give her another chance to prove herself. 

"So, what should a nation do in this situation? What's the smart play?" France asked eyes lit up with plotting intent.

Lucille rolled her eyes, "divide and conquer. I can slip out and cause more cracks, then return. England would be none the wiser." 

"Good girl… That's my Lucille," France said, proud of her cunning.

"Don't you forget it…" she said, squirming out from the brig through the opening in the bars. She climbed up the stairs to the hold, moving quickly and silently to the galley, through another door to the pantry, she remembered the room far too well, being reminded of when France sucked her off in there. 

She saw the small window, above water level but sealed shut. She smashed the window, began chucking food from the pantry into the sea. Anything she saw that looked appetizing she either took a bite from or placed in a box to take back to France. 

Movement in the corner of her eye startled her, head shooting to the colorful green snake coiled around some food hampers. 

"Hello, I'm glad you're here." She grinned, stretching out her arm letting the snake flick its forked tongue a few times, and then slide forward to take up residence on her bicep. 

She set back to work, the shelves nearly cleared out before she heard footfall drawing nearer. Hiding behind a barrel she watched as the pantry door opened, and Spain entered, feeling a sick excitement at the prospect of being alone with him. 

She snuck around the barrel as he entered further into the room, watched as he approached the broken window, and peered outside. 

Lucille smirked, taking a breath and slamming the door shut. Rolling the barrel across the floor and knocking Spain's knees, giving him dead leg and sending him flying over the barrel. His head hit the floor with a harsh thud, their eyes met and she watched him blanch. 

"L-- Lucille…" 

She giggled, leaning on her haunches to be closer to him. He was frozen with fear. 

"What are you--" 

A smirk. 

"Creating conflict~" she cooed, petting the snake's head. Spain shivered and she lived for it. Lived for the power she brought. "Tell me, how would  _ you _ create conflict?"

Spain didn't respond, "I--" 

"Hm? I think… you'd create conflict by being yourself. You seem very good at it." She snickered, "I have another question, how does England feel about betrayal?" 

She gave him time to answer this time, listening to his pathetic "I wouldn't know." 

She smirked, eyes locking onto the bites around his neck. "Hm, seems you like being bitten?" She asked, extending her arm and allowing the snake to slither down her tanned skin to sit in her hand. 

Spain could only watch with wide eyes. 

"No…" he whispered. 

" _ No _ what?" She sneered. "I've killed you once, why are you afraid?" 

Spain hated snakes. Not that he'd admit that to her.

The snake grew closer to Spain, to his throat and he flinched. 

"I wouldn't do that, you know… she'll bite."

As if the snake had heard Lucille's threat, she sprung into action, muscular slim body supernaturally slow in her lunge from Lucille's arm, but even if the moment felt like it was in slow motion, the pain was instant, causing Spain to jolt and jump. 

He screamed, throwing his head back only to expose more of his throat. 

He felt the burn as the fangs entered his bloodstream. Venom. 

He reached up and slapped the snake away, but it was too late. She climbed back up Lucille's arm after depositing her venom into Spain's body. 

"At least death will be swift." Lucille crooned, gripping the hamper of food she'd collected for herself and France and leaving the room. Making her way back down to the brig. 

"I'm back~" she said with a singsong tone. 

"And brought a veritable feast with you as well! Charming," France smiled at her getting up to take the box from her as she stepped back in through the loose bar, pushing it back in place so it looked like they'd never left. "Did you run into anyone while you were out?"

She hummed, "Spain. But I sorted him out." Then she smirked, "well, Belle sorted him out… didn't you?" She crooked her finger against the snake's head. Forked tongue flickering out in acknowledgment. 

“Excellent. Well, now we have the fun task of sitting back, stuffing our bellies, and watching the cracks form. You did well, Lucille,” France said warmly, smiling genuinely at her. 


	10. Distrust Sown Like Seeds of Cyanide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twenty-five.

England was jealous. It wasn’t an emotion he could recognize, wasn’t one he was familiar with. When he wanted something he took it. The fact that he had to actually, ugh, listen and respect Spain’s wishes… That he wasn’t just a treasure to steal but an alliance to honor, meant England was dealing with the emotion for the first time and didn’t even know what it was. 

All he knew was that when he saw Andorra - Mateo - he was irrationally angry and wanted him to suffer. Wanted him to look foolish. Wanted him to stay away from Spain. 

“Hey, Andorra. How’s your English coming along?” England asked, striding right up to him and scowling in his tall face. 

Mateo looked at him when he heard  _ Andorra,  _ then was able to pick out the word  _ English.  _ But other than that he was completely lost. 

"Uhhh…" he thought hard before resorting to speaking Spanish, knowing that England could speak it too.  **"I don't understand."**

“Of course you wouldn’t… So dumb, you have to get Spain to do everything for you, don’t you?” England sniped, a sneer across his lips. 

Mateo looked at him with a dead stare, he'd learned from his time around England that the captain was fair-weather at the best of times. And when his tone was biting it was always fun to rile him up further. 

**"What's got your pantaloons in a knot?"**

England was taken aback, not sure how to respond except to get angrier. 

“You’re always hanging around him, hanging off him. He must be absolutely sick of you! Leaning over him like some decrepit three-legged puppy… You’re a nation now. You can’t keep depending on him. Jesus fucking christ -  **you can’t keep depending on him, you fucktard** ,” England finished in Spanish to make sure the most important part got through. 

Mateo froze upon hearing the words, but then he stood his ground. 

**"In case you haven't noticed I haven't been near him since we were allowed out of that damn brig!"** Mateo fumed, not willing to sit and listen to England spouting shit. **"I don't know what's going on with you two to make you act like this but leave me out of it!"**

“Leave you out of it? I would if I fucking could! I’d sit you in a rowboat and shoot flaming arrows at you like that bitch was planning from the beginning, but for some reason, Spain seems to like you and included your safety as part of our alliance!” England paused as soon as he said it, mind casting back to the exact phrasing Spain had given when he brought it up. “Actually, no… he didn’t, did he? All he said was ‘humor me’. Huh… You weren’t even a part of it, now that I think about it…” England mused, looking him up and down. He was weighing how much he was worth, as an underling, a crew member, a hostage nation. He wanted Mateo for his crew due to his skills, but not if he was gonna have to constantly fight him for Spain’s attention. 

Just at that moment, another crewmate stepped forward catching England’s eye. 

“Captain, sir, there’s something you need to see…” 

“Really? Can’t you see I’m busy?” 

“Sir, it’s your prisoner - Spain? We found him collapsed in the galley and he’s not responding.” 

England sighed and slapped Mateo a bit too hard on his good shoulder. 

“We’ll continue this next time -  **next time** ,” England clarified. 

Mateo nodded, immediately heading to the galley alongside England, wishing he could rub his shoulder.

He strode down to the galley, ready to be insulting toward Spain and whatever predicament he’d gotten himself into. But when faced with the reality, England was immediately shaken. He didn’t look right at all… 

Spain had managed to bring his legs up, cradling them against his chest as he lay there. His skin was clammy, washed out, devoid of all color of life, his hand clutching at the side of his neck, obscuring it from view. The only thing that moved when England entered the room was his eyes, pupils dilated but almost unseeing and definitely unfocused. 

His breathing was labored, the rise and fall of his chest shallow and fast and uneven, almost like sometimes he could draw a breath, while others he was left battling for air. His eyes drooped, drowsiness starting to present itself as he fought with little success to keep his eyes open. 

Mateo moved first, running and skidding to a halt at Spain's side, but his hand didn't dare move him. 

**"Cap'n…"**

No response. 

England stepped closer, kneeled, and reached out. 

"Spain? What happened to you?" England asked, his throat catching. He reached out to stroke his face, let him know he was there since he didn't seem all that lucid. The moment he touched Spain he shuddered and gurgled and fell over twitching.

**"Cap'n!"** Mateo called, catching him against his chest, but Spain's chest no longer moved, his eyes unseeing and lifeless, arms falling limp at his sides and pained expression going slack.

**"What…"** Mateo immediately began searching for wounds, checking his body for anything that indicated a fight or a fatal injury. But he found nothing. The bite marks on Spain's neck left him curious, but the snake bite was hidden by his arm as he cradled Spain. He quickly realized where the red line of bites had come from and looked at England as if to say  _ really? _

England saw the glare, the judgment about the lovebites, and between the stress of Spain being mysteriously hurt, the jealousy around Mateo that he couldn’t even identify as such, the thought of being left behind again, it all formed an irrational confluence and he felt helpless in his need to lash out. 

“This is your fault,” he breathed quietly, eyes enraged watching the way Mateo held him, touched him. He couldn’t stand it. Without any other warning, he stepped forward and slapped Mateo hard across the face, watching as he lost his grip on Spain and brought his hand to his cheek instead. 

“Don’t you fucking touch him… Men, throw him in the brig with the others,” England ordered, never once losing eye contact with Mateo. He sneered, smiled evilly, and stepped forward to scoop Spain up himself. “I’m taking care of him from now on…” England turned to leave, carrying Spain with him. 

Mateo clutched at his face, watching England walk away. He was ushered up by England's men, taken down to the brig where he saw France and Lucille. Scowled at them both. 

This wasn't going to end well.

\----

England rushed Spain into his quarters, laid him on the bed, and immediately began pulling his clothes off, looking for something, some reason why he was unresponsive, his skin sweaty and cold, his face ashen and his heart stopped. Once he was naked, there was nothing to see, except the various scars and still-healing wounds across his body. Each of which he could identify - the time he’d stabbed him to the floor, the time he’d run a sword through his chest to make him a dead doll to play with, the time he shot him through the foot on their first encounter. In looking him over so carefully England couldn’t help think there was something  _ else  _ wrong with Spain. Why would he want to be with someone who had hurt him so much? England felt a little guilty, but more than that he was sad. 

Of course, Spain would prefer Mateo. They got along so well, they loved each other and it was pure and simple and it looked easy for them from where England stood. Mateo wouldn’t stab him or threaten him or force him to take care of him… England slumped on the bed, holding his head in his hands. He was ruining yet another thing. Spain was dying, Mateo locked away with yet worse tormentors, and he was the one intentionally ripping them apart. 

“God, I’m so fucked up… I can’t let you go, and I can’t love you right. What the hell is wrong with me?” England muttered to himself, glancing at Spain’s deathly-pale face. Just when he looked up Spain twitched. England turned around and crawled closer, leaning over him. 

“Spain? Are you coming back? Come on, you can do it, love, just follow the sound of my voice…” England said desperately. He knew Spain would come back from whatever it was that killed him, but not knowing the cause still lodged a spike of fear in his chest. It also seemed a bit too soon... 

Spain suddenly jolted, eyes going wide as he took a shuddering breath, but as soon as he did so he fell limp against the bed with a cry, before dying all over again. 

“No!” England cried, seeing him shudder and jerk and go still again, his heart stopping, chest falling motionless. “Spain! What the hell is it? He’s not injured, there’s nothing to rebuild…” England hovered indecisively until he realized something. “He’s been poisoned…” 

England jumped off the bed and went running back down to the galley kitchen and the pantry where Spain had been found. He was so preoccupied with him and Andorra that England failed to notice. All their stocked food and provisions were gone, the shelves bare. He thought he might figure out what Spain had eaten that poisoned him, but there was nothing. He felt an unpleasant thrill through his core. The men had already seen this, they already knew there was nothing to eat and they were far out from land. It was a recipe for mutiny. 

England cursed and stormed back up to the deck. He called his first mate over and began to explain the situation but he already knew everything. Everyone already knew everything… England groaned. When had he lost control like this? He ordered his first mate to gather everyone and start questioning. Who was in the galley, who would have done it, see if they couldn’t ferret out the rat themselves first before he got involved. 

Then England went back to the room, just in time to see Spain revive yet again, and then die yet again. He sighed and went over to the bed, setting his hat aside, his boots, getting more comfortable. While his men were playing detective outside, he would keep watch over Spain, hold his hand through each death until he came back around. As he laid there, searching over every inch of him, England’s eyes rested on the lovemarks around his neck. He smiled, admiring them. He turned Spain by his chin to see the other side and paused when he noticed one of them was far redder and puffier than the others. He leaned closer, practically nuzzling his neck, and finally saw the two tiny pinpricks positioned there. 

England gasped. It wasn’t poison, it was venom. How, what, he didn’t know, but he knew one thing about venom…  _ Suck it out _ . 

Immediately England clambered on top of him, sinking down to latch his lips around the bite, sucking hard, trying to pull anything from it. It had been so long since it happened, he was doubtful it would do anything, but he wasn’t going to stop trying. As he sucked, tasted blood, the hickey around the bite growing larger and darker, England perversely felt himself getting turned on for some reason. It was madness, probably rooted in some fucked up role reversal from his childhood, but he couldn’t deny that sucking and kissing Spain’s neck, waiting for him to come back to him, sent a strange thrill through his loins and he felt himself grow hard despite his self-hatred. He ignored it, just continued to try and suck the venom out, holding Spain each time he shuddered alive, and then went still in death again. 

After it happened 20 times, England stopped counting. 

\----

Spain trembled a sigh, shaking violently as he revived  _ again _ , each time he revived, he was lucid for slightly longer than the last. But this time, he closed his eyes and sunk into the bed, breathing a labored exhale. 

He opened his eyes slowly, blinking blearily as his surroundings came into focus. His head hurt, his muscles ached, and his neck throbbed. He looked around, spotting England on top of him and freezing. He felt his lips on his neck, his tongue working against his skin, his face turning red and hot and he groaned softly.

Then he remembered their earlier tiff and wondered if he was still mad. 

He opened his mouth, ready to call England's name, but he found his voice wouldn't come… he groaned again, his arms feeling far too heavy to lift. He grimaced. 

England felt Spain moving slightly under him and pulled back to sit on him and look down, fully expecting to watch him die. Again. He hadn’t grown numb to it… But he’d become strange. His lips were coated in blood, dripping down his chin. Spain’s neck was a mess. When he couldn’t get enough out from just sucking he’d started to use his teeth, biting and tearing so he could suck it out more efficiently. At some point, he’d started grinding, at some point he’d lost his clothes, and at some point he’d cum, spattering over Spain’s stomach while he bit and sucked his neck. England hadn’t touched himself, hadn’t egged himself on, if anything he hated himself more. But he couldn’t deny it. 

He’d become strange again. 

When he saw Spain looking at him, really looking, not just a brief gasp before the next fit of darkness, England both giggled and curled in on himself so as not to be seen. 

“S-Spain… Oh, f-f-fuck…. I- I’m sorry… I was trying to suck the venom out…. And- and- fuck, I’m sorryI’msorryI’msorry…” England bent forward to curl up on top of Spain. Even now he was being selfish. He was still on top of him - still didn’t want to move. Fuck, how was he even still hard? England felt bitter tears in his eyes. He was so fucked up. 

“I-I know… this is why… You prefer Andorra…” England whispered, shaking. 

Spain's mind whirled with all the information he was receiving so suddenly. Suddenly he wasn't dying for the umpteenth time, his whole body hurt in ways he didn't know it could, he was sticky and cold and his neck  _ really _ fucking hurt. What the hell was England even doing? Trying to decapitate him with his mouth? 

He could feel England's erection against him, feel a lot of things against him… but his heart sped up in his chest when he heard England's words.  _ This is why you prefer Andorra. _

It was at that moment that Spain forced himself to speak, forced himself to clear his sore throat and look down at England. 

"Prefer… Andorra…?" His brows lifted, he was briefly confused, then he realized he meant Mateo, not Lucille. "You think… I prefer Mateo…?" 

England couldn’t look at him. Nodded against his chest.

"Why?" Spain asked, "did I… do something?" 

“I don’t want you thinking about anyone but me. I’m terrible… You’re right… You should be w-with him… instead…” England licked his lips, swallowed down yet more blood. He felt sick to his stomach. This was the end…

Spain felt a fresh pain in his chest, "I… I'm afraid I don't understand, I have to think about other people…" then he paused, "do you mean… in regards to the alliance?" 

“I-I mean… It makes sense…” England swayed back upright, smiling at Spain, crying at the same time. “Why else would you be thinking of him… When we were doing that… This is what you have to look forward to with me. Being bloodied, killed, fucked over… At least with him… At least with him… You can speak Spanish, and-and-and not get raped, or, I don’t know… He probably won’t stab you either… So… I-I get it-” England cut himself off with a shudder, slapping a hand over his mouth to stop the sob from escaping. 

Spain wished he could do more, but he was still pinned by England, so he gripped England's hips instead, stroking his skin softly. 

"I… don't want Mateo that way. Never have… he's too much like a brother to me. I do, however, want you…" 

“I don’t believe you… Why would you say his name…?” England asked through gritted teeth, hand wiping at his eyes.

"His… name…" Spain's hands flew up to his mouth as he realized what England meant. "I-- I… it wasn't his name…" 

England pulled his hands back and shot a teary glare at Spain. 

"It was yours…" Spain said voice cracking and expression crumpling. 

England sniffed, looked confused. “My… name?” Then his eyes widened as if suddenly remembering. “O-ohhh…  _ That  _ name…” England shook his head. “Fuck. I’m so dumb,” he muttered, looking down at Spain with a softer gaze. “No one has used that name for me… In thousands of years… Since I was little… Mortal… I sometimes forget… Arthur.” 

He let out a huge relieved sigh. Cleared his throat. Grabbed a handkerchief from the side table and began wiping Spain clean of blood, cum, sweat. He felt remorseful. 

“H-how do you feel? You got bit by something… Besides me, I mean.”

Spain's hand clapped over his neck, "it was Lucille!" 

“Lucille? But she’s locked in the brig with- Oh shit. Spain. I gotta go,” England said with urgency clambering off him and off the bed entirely, pulling his trousers on, his jacket without even a shirt underneath. 

"Wait… where are you going?" Spain asked in a rush, trying to follow but finding his body still suffering from ataxia from the venom. 

“I- uh…. Okay, don’t get mad. Listen, when I thought Andorra was trying to take you from me… I may have uh, well… Locked him in the brig with France and Lucille,” England said the last part in a rush, getting his final boot on and running toward the door before Spain could freak out. “Getting him now!” 

"You did  _ what?" _ Spain tried to follow him again, instead, he fell headfirst off the bed. 

England did not pause, did not turn around to help. He went running down to the brig with nothing but a pistol and a hothead. He was so single-minded that he didn’t see Lucille lurking behind the threshold, swinging her arm out to clothesline him as he sprinted past. Her elbow caught him right in the throat and he choked and croaked as his legs went up, his back went down, and his head crashed against the stairs, him sliding and falling the rest of the way to the bottom. He laid there, unable to breathe, unable to move for a moment. Finally a coughing breath, his hand going to the back of his head, coming back bloody. It was a wonder he hadn’t been knocked out. 

Lucille grinned, standing directly above his head and lifting her foot, her boot coming down hard onto his face. 

Mateo watched on from where he was in the brig, breaking free from France and immediately trying to dislodge the bar she'd escaped from. Testing the give of several bars before finding the right one and kicking it out. He bent it almost completely out of shape in order to get out, putting all of his body behind the force he was using. 

Lucille looked over to Mateo and smirked,  **"oh? You're going to help** **_him?_ ** **"** She thumbed at England. 

Mateo finally broke free, stalking closer to Lucille and where she was standing on England's face. Refusing to answer her. He was streaked in blood from France and Lucille toying with him and she had only left the cell to get another tool to hurt him with. England just had bad timing. 

France stepped out from the brig as well. 

“Looks like the little fool finally realized his mistake. Toss me his gun, won’t you my flower?”

Lucille smirked, grabbing England's gun and throwing it over to France. She left England where he was and returned to France's side. 

Mateo reached England, falling to his knees and shaking him by the shoulder. 

“Nnnn…” England moaned, his vision blurry, his face throbbing. He didn’t know if he was conscious or not, but he could feel Mateo shaking him and slowly blinked his eyes back open. 

“Ah, there he is, finally awake again. Lucille, what should we do with them both? Did you say England made him fuck Spain? What about doing it the other way around, let England get a taste instead…” France smirked, enjoying how he was going to draw his revenge out over decades. 

Lucille grinned widely, "I like the sound of that." 

Mateo looked at their expressions, not liking the way they shared knowing glances. He scooped England up with one arm, hoisting him over his shoulder gracelessly and he took off up the stairs into the hold. 

Lucille's eyes narrowed. "Looks like they want to play." And with a smirk she gave chase, taking the pistol back from France before she left. 

Mateo kicked barrels and wooden boxes across the galley's gangway in an attempt to stop Lucille, or at least slow her down. It worked momentarily, but the time it took him to stop and kick an object gave her ample time to replace lost seconds. 

He climbed onto the deck with a great struggle, lifting himself and England out of the bowels of the ship and they emerged into the sunset. 

That was to the starboard side of the ship.

Mateo paused for a moment, grateful that Lucille was still recovering from the wounds to her arms and shoulders, and she was slow climbing the rope. 

**"Shit…"** Mateo growled, heading straight towards the helm. 

“Andorra… Mateo…” England said unsteadily. He still felt blurry from the blows to his head, but he realized they were being chased, that they were headed to the helm and his men. Straining up against Mateo carrying him he winced and gave out an order to his navigator. 

“Recapture her! She and France need to be stopped,”

“No sir, it’s you who needs to stop…” the navigator responded, stepping closer to Mateo, hand on his sword. He didn’t draw it, waited for Lucille to catch up as he came closer. “Wasting all your time on prisoners, getting taken hostage on your own ship, France even told us you’ve been whoring yourself out! You don’t give a shit about us, I already know that, but now you’ve lost your honor as well. No one wants to follow someone so pathetic. You don’t even care if we starve!” the man accused, other men coming up from the lower decks as well, a semi-circle of them surrounding them, Lucille grinning widely in amusement. 

England patted Mateo, silently asking him to set him down. England stood unsteadily, took a moment to fix his jacket, and stand tall. He fixed the navigator with a cold stare. 

“You’re mutineering then? Against your own country? When we’re so close to home?” England sneered. 

The navigator grinned, both upset and gloating at the same time. 

“That’s the thing, sir, you’ve been so focused on yourself you didn’t even notice. We’ve been sailing south this entire time. We’re closer to France than England,” he admitted. 

England grew pale, reached out with his senses, and noticed, yes, they were getting further from his land, France would be getting stronger, more likely to run into his men. 

Mateo looked at England, then at the growing crew around them. 

**"I was trying to change our course…"** he looked around.  **"The navigator, he's the ringleader."**

**“We have to get control back before we run into any French ships,”** England said lowly, glancing back around to see who was still loyal. Half the crew was there, his first mate and the rest he assumed were still loyal weren’t anywhere to be found. Shit, what happened to them? His navigator was right, he wasn’t being a strong leader. No wonder they didn’t trust him anymore. 

**"Then take control. You're the captain; show them why you're the captain."** Mateo said,  **"They won't listen to anyone but you… use me as you must."**

He placed his trust in England. 

England nodded, already thinking of a way out of it. He grabbed Mateo by the hair, forcing him to bend, shoving him forward so his men could see. 

“Look, we have Andorra, we have Spain, and now I’m ordering you to recapture these prisoners! Do you really think France will show you dogs mercy once he has his own men? Do you really trust his promises? His lies? Do as I say now and I’ll forget this indiscretion ever happened,” England yelled, scowling at all of them. 

Mateo sank to his knees when England tugged on his hair. Bowing his head in submission. 

Lucille scowled, "you know, he's not the only Andorra." She revealed, "the  _ true _ Andorra is on France's side." 

The English crew murmured to themselves, twilight sweeping in around them casting their faces in a strange light. England felt like he didn’t recognize any of them. When had he lost them? Was it when he got caught up with Spain? When he went with France on the island? When they saw him dying over and over again for stupid emotional reasons? England didn’t know. Any one of the many times he’d made a fool of himself was enough to lose loyalty. It was why he kept being surprised by Spain… This was how he expected him to react, with distrust, and violence. 

But even when he fucked up, Spain stuck around. England shook his head. He couldn’t think about him right now. 

“Listen, I know you’re all hungry, and I know I haven’t been as present as I should. But I can guarantee you the French will make you all walk the plank once their country is secure. I can help you steal some food from the next ship we come across -  _ after  _ we get out of French waters, you wankers,” he glanced at Lucille, his darker impulse surfacing again, “And I’ll even throw in some entertainment. We’ll make her sing and dance for us, apparently, she’s quite good at it. What do you say, boys? Drinking and dancing all night or drowning far from home?” England grinned, knew he had their attention again. 

The men refocused on Lucille, even bloodstained and tattered they could appreciate her body. England was afraid it wouldn’t work having just come from an island with a thriving brothel, but he needn’t have worried. Men were animals after all. 

Lucille glared at him, Belle around her neck like fine jewels. "Why wait? Kill England and I'll dance and sing for you all."

The men all chuckled and several drew their swords stepping closer. 

England cursed. Apparently, Lucille had no problem using sexism in her favor as well. She had been trained by France after all… England was just about to let Mateo go and charge the closest man, try to get a sword to fight with when he heard the captain’s door slam open and stomping up the stairs to the upper deck where they were all circled. 

A gunshot split the air, and Lucille crumpled to the floor, a shot to the back of her head stopping her in her tracks. Spain climbed up the stairs, breathing heavily and his body aching with every step. He was armed to the teeth with guns and Alfanje, approaching England and Mateo. 

"Who's next?" He asked darkly. 

France stood at the mainmast on the main deck, watching the scene unfold with an amused look. Behind him, he could feel the pull of his land, the pulse of his people. Just out of sight, and quickly closing the distance, was a French armada. This was all just a way for them to buy time. England was right of course, he wouldn’t save any of these Englishmen when his boats arrived. It didn’t matter if they mutineered or not, but it definitely made it easier to sneak up on them when they were consumed with disloyalty. France turned and strode toward the bow, seeing if they were visible yet when he heard Spain emerge and start up the stair. He turned just in time to see him put a bullet in Lucille’s head and suddenly he wasn’t so sure they had enough time after all… 

He went to put a stop to it. 

Spain looked at England, "cement your status." And handed him a pistol. 

England grinned at him, genuinely pleased to have him back at his side. He raised his arm and swept the barrel of the gun in a wide circle, catching each man’s eyes and targeting him before moving to the next. 

“Alright, you dogs… I gave you a chance and now let’s make one thing crystal clear. I am the captain of this ship. Are you with me? Or are you my enemy?” England yelled, his eyes glowing murderous green. 

Slowly each one dropped his sword, his gun, and one of them shouted - “We follow you, England!” and with that, they were all back in his pocket. He pointed his sword at the navigator. 

“Not you… You were the ringleader weren’t you?”

“He’ll be coming with me, actually,” France said, striding up onto the deck. He looked over at Lucille’s bloodied, crumpled form and tutted. “Really Spain? Did you have to shoot her in the head?” 

Spain raised the gun again, slightly higher than arm height. 

"Want to join her?" 

England grabbed his wrist and lowered it. 

"Don't do it Spain, we need him alive if we're getting out of this…"

Spain scowled, but lowered the gun. 

_ "One  _ wrong move and I'm putting a bullet in his head." 

"And what do you think _they'll_ do?" England thumbed at the growing forest of ship masts on the horizon. 

Spain looked down, handing England the gun. "Take it off me then." 

"Since when have  _ I  _ become the reasonable one?" England said, taking the offered pistol.

"Oh, you haven't England. You're just more afraid, aren't you?" France smirked.

"Alright, enough of this. All enemies and traitors in the rowboat! We'll leave them a little package and get out of here," England ordered. His men moving to lower the boat. France scooped Lucille up.

Spain and Mateo watched on, deciding it was better if they  _ didn't  _ get involved with the frail command England had over his crew. The last thing Spain wanted to do was ruin what they were developing and he stopped Mateo from involving himself. 

**"Don't. If they see us as anything more than prisoners then they might start an uprising again."**

Mateo nodded. 

England was back in captain mode and was shouting orders to turn the ship, to fix the sails, to drop the rowboat. The early night was fair and clear with only a small spattering of clouds - despite the sheer size and scope of the armada they could still stay well ahead of them if they moved quickly.

Spain watched him closely, feeling a twist of  _ something  _ in his chest, it felt like longing, how he missed being in charge of his own crew, he missed a lot of things about being a captain… but he also felt a sting of something bittersweet, like pride, because England was taking control, standing up to his demons and their tricks. He was thriving in his own way. 

France was forced into the rowboat at the point of a gun and he turned to give one final pithy observation. 

"Don't think this is over, England. It's only just begun…" 

England glared at France, then smiled. 

"You're right, we're not quite done yet, are we? Take off your clothes," England said in a low growl. 

"What?!" France looked surprised, thought he'd already said his final line.

England stepped forward leaning over the rail until the barrel was pressed to France's forehead. 

"Take. Off. Your. Clothes.  _ Now _ . Otherwise, your men will have to pick up two corpses instead of one," England grinned.

"You think it wise to anger me further?" France ground out, though he'd started unbuttoning his shirt. 

"Wise? No, it's just hilarious. Totally worth it," England snatched the shirt from him and wiggled the gun lower. "The rest of it too." 

France snarled but quickly took everything off. He wasn't embarrassed being naked, but it was a humiliating display of power. England would pay it back with interest. Once completely stripped England finally gave the order and the rowboat went down over the side into inky black water. 

Spain continued to watch, to wait, all the while a plethora of emotions ran through his body. 

**"Cap'n,"** he turned to look at Mateo,  **"what now?"**

Spain could only shrug.  **"Back to the brig, I guess. We need to make sure England's captaincy isn't challenged again… at least not while we're on such open waters."**

Mateo nodded again, watching Spain stand and following him as they went back to the brig, at least for now. Once England gave the order they'd be free again, or not. But for now, it was important they didn't do anything to challenge England's power. 

England was in a better mood the second France was off the boat, watched with a sneer as he slowly rowed closer to his armada. He turned to give more orders, eyes casting about for Spain’s so he could smile at him, silently brag about how the whole situation turned out. But he wasn’t anywhere to be found. He frowned but kept moving forward. There wasn’t time, they had to get and stay out of range. Luckily, where France had size and grandeur on his side, England’s ship was small and more nimble and could stay ahead of them. 

The ship turned in the wind and headed back north, though England needed someone else to take over since he was down a navigator. Again, he looked around the deck for Mateo, hoping he could use his skills but again, he and Spain were gone. He handed the wheel off to one of his men and then went down in the hold to look for them. He didn’t fail to notice how his men’s eyes followed him and before he went down he shouted some more orders to keep them all moving. He knew his leadership was a bit tenuous at the moment, but he still needed the other two nations at his side. Looks be damned. 

They weren’t in the hold or the galley and England sighed as he went down lower, knowing the only logical place they’d be was the brig. They were both in the cell, though it was useless as such. The bar was still bent out of place and anyone could easily walk in or out. They were just sitting on the bench inside the bars based on honor. 

“Come on you two, get out of there already. I need a navigator. And Spain, well, I just need you,” England said, sounding grumpy but he actually was pleased. Removing France was like lighting a candle - suddenly he could see again. 

Spain looked up at him, "but we don't want to have any more leadership issues." Spain explained, "we thought it'd be best if we stayed down here until you explicitly gave an order otherwise." 

“Thanks for using your head, but right now, I need you on deck more than down here. I’ll keep my men in line, don’t you worry,” England said assuredly. He planned to crack open a barrel of rum to curb any hunger pangs, get them rowdy and drunk and go hunting for merchant ships. Bonus if they were French traders… He nodded his head at them. “Come on, let’s go,” and this time he smiled. 

Spain returned the smile, standing up and making his way over to England and beckoning for Mateo to come with them.

Mateo followed Spain, but kept his distance as to not intrude, other than the word  _ navigator _ , he hadn't been able to pick anything else up from England's words, but he followed Spain's movements because Spain did know what was said. 

Once back up on deck England yelled at his men. 

“Listen up you lot! This is our new navigator - Andorra! And this-” England grabbed Spain by his waist and pulled him close, so he had to stumble and fall against England to stay upright. “This is my bitch, got it!? If I see so much as a hint of disrespect toward either of them I’ll whip some manners into you myself. Now get back to work! We’re on the hunt, boys! Break out the rum - the first one to spot a ship gets an extra piece of gold!” England yelled to pleased cheers and the crew all began moving around again. 

Spain stumbled against England, crashing into him unceremoniously, his jaw dropped, head snapping to look at England like  _ what?  _

Mateo just watched, side-eyeing England and Spain then focusing on the crew. Once they were all moving again Mateo looked at Spain with a questioning look. 

**"Uh, you're… the new navigator,"** Spain explained, watching Mateo's face closely. He looked confused at first, even mumbled a quiet  **"why?"**

**"Ask him,"** Spain pointed to England before standing upright, "and I'm your  _ bitch?"  _

“Oh come on, don’t get your knickers in a twist. You know that’s the only way those men would get it. They almost mutineered because they saw me sucking you off or whatever. Gotta keep up appearances. You know - with you under me, like you agreed,” England grinned mischievously at him, enjoying watching Spain flounder and sputter. “Show Andorra to the wheel, love,” England smirked. 

Spain mumbled, too low to be understood but not quiet enough that he wasn't heard mumbling. Then he sighed.  **"Follow me, Mateo."**

Mateo just nodded, following Spain up to the wheel and quickly taking notice of everything from the horizon to the zenith. The port side to the starboard, and even to the stern where the armada was becoming smaller as the galleon escaped from the fleet of royal galleons. 

**"You'll be okay,"** Spain said, patting his shoulder gently.  **"I'll keep checking up on you."**

**"But…"**

**"You're still my first mate, always will be."**

Mateo nodded solemnly, keeping his head low.

England watched appreciatively as a couple of men rolled a full barrel of rum on deck. Between everything going on, prisoners escaping, a failed mutiny, Spain burrowing deeper and deeper into his history, England was shocked he hadn’t had a drink all day. He’d been far too sober for far too long. When the barrel was tapped he was the first to fill his mug and drain it in one go, refilling it and walking it up to the upper deck. He stepped closer to Spain and Andorra, handing the drink to Spain. 

“Here, enjoy. You earned this too. Andorra, you’ll have to find a cup somewhere… I’ve only got the one,” England smiled and looked at his new navigator, pleased to have everything going his way once again. 

Spain handed the cup to Mateo, "I think he's earned it more than I have." Spain nodded. But what he didn't expect was for Mateo to decline the drink, immediately settling into his new role. Spain smiled proudly. 

England noticed as well and laughed, hitting Andorra on his shoulder. 

“That’s a responsible navigator if I ever saw one! Careful Spain, you might not get him back…” England grinned, taking another swig from his cup as he took it back from Andorra. 

Spain hummed, "I'll kill you and make off with him in the night." He said with a smile. 

“We’ll see about that. I think you might be a bit too busy at night to run off anywhere though…” England enjoyed the playful banter, feeling secure once again. 

Spain flushed brightly, "that's if I let you." He crossed his arms over his chest. 

“Aww, come on… You’re not still mad about that bitch comment, are you? Don’t be like that, I’ll make it up to you,” England said, a single finger tracing small circles over his pecs, above his crossed arms. He meant it too, he’d do anything Spain wanted at that moment, he felt so free. 

"Alright," Spain caved, his heart fluttering in his chest at the touch of England's finger, "prove it." 

“Gladly… Let’s go somewhere a bit more private…” England murmured, grabbing his wrist from his crossed arms and leading him back to his quarters. “They’ll be busy drinking for a while, we don’t need to worry about anything for once,” England said, opening the door and bowing for Spain to enter first. 

His mood wasn't lost on Spain, and he had to admit he really enjoyed seeing this side of England. "My, my, what do you have planned?" Spain smirked, stepping into the room. 

“Oh you know, some drinks, some candlelight, a massage maybe, we’ll see where the evening takes us,” England listed off easily. He strode in and started setting up the room to his liking. Lighting candles around the room, grabbing a vial of oil and tossing it on the bed, getting a second cup and his silver flagon, and going back toward the door. 

“Get comfortable, I’ll be right back,” England stepped out and headed down to the barrel where several men were still gathered around drinking and filled it to the brim, smirking when a few of his men nudged and winked at him. 

“Going back to take care of your bitch?” One of them asked, a knowing twinkle in his eye.

England grinned, showing his teeth. It felt good having everything back in their proper place. “You know a captain’s work is never done, he’s so needy, you know…” England said slyly which earned a round of laughter from the other men. They had no problem with the arrangement as long as it was their captain on top and he didn’t need to tell them the details of what went on. Spain wasn’t around to complain about the one-sided way he portrayed it. He laughed with them for a moment and swapped a few more words before he started to head back, his good mood seeming to buoy him up. 

He opened the door with a flourish. 

“Honey, I’m home! Did you miss me?” England asked, laughing as he did it. 

Spain was sitting cross-legged on the bed, watching him with amusement. He reclined against the pillows, and hummed in agreement, "I did. But as a bitch I missed your cock more." He smirked. 

England quirked an eyebrow and stepped closer, setting the flagon to the side. 

“Did you now? Well, don’t worry, I’ll give it to you… All in good time.” England got onto the bed, lifting a leg, and swung it over him so he was settled in Spain’s lap. “First, give me a kiss,” England breathed, feeling much more confident in it. 

Spain's face grew warm, and he cupped England's cheeks, bringing their lips together in a gentle, chaste kiss. Letting England decide if he wanted to go deeper. 

It was just as England had hoped, asking for it and wanting it made it feel so much better. Spain already knew about the worst of him, it made it easier to trust him when accepted all of it regardless. It meant he could do this with no fear. He leaned forward and pressed his lips harder to Spain’s, licking against him and opening his own mouth wider. He brought his arms up around Spain’s neck and tilted his head, eyes closed, all of it wanted. 

Spain's lips slid against his, tongue coming to meet England's and meet him halfway. His hands moved from England's face, carding through his hair as he deepened the kiss. England moaned into it, felt himself growing hotter, dick growing hard, breath coming faster. He broke away gasping. 

“Fuck, I wish I had gotten over that a lot sooner…” England panted. He brought his forehead to rest against Spain’s and breathed out deeply. “Want some rum?” He smiled, looking into his eyes. 

Spain exhaled deeply, swallowing, and met England's eyes, "I, uhm, I'm good, thanks." He mentally slapped himself, then kicked his own ass, then he even went as far as to stab himself with a stupid dagger. Mentally, of course. 

He'd definitely just destroyed the mood, England's good mood. He buried his face in his hands. 

"I mean, uh, sure." 

England blinked, wasn’t exactly sure what had happened. It seemed like Spain had done several mental somersaults and landed back where he’d started. 

“Uh, are you sure? I mean… you don’t have to… I just figured you’re a pirate, so, you know… We usually like to drink,” England wasn’t sure if he should be insulted or amused. Spain did look cute hiding his face like that and blushing. 

"I know…" Spain sighed, looking down, "I might have some later?" 

“Well, more for me then! Still, when did you start being so sober?” England asked with a smirk, reaching over to grab his cup and take a long burning sip himself. 

Spain didn't want to answer. "Uh… it just happened, I guess." 

England peered at him over the rim, suspicious that Spain was hiding something from him. But he didn’t say anything. For all the shit he repressed he supposed Spain could keep a few secrets if he wanted. 

“Huh… Well then, I’ll just move on then,” England said lightly, taking one final sip before setting it aside again. “Alright, take your shirt off, poppet,” England said, shifting his hips to get more comfortable, rolling his sleeves up his arms.

Spain swallowed thickly, his heart speeding and a tremble starting to work across his body, his muscles pinching and releasing. His fingers started to fumble with his buttons on his shirt and he bit his lip, looking down at his buttons in an attempt to make things easier, but instead, he found his vision blur. Shit… shit… shit… 

He struggled out from beneath England, swinging his legs over the side of the bed while his shaking only grew worse. The first tears began to fall, fat saline droplets rolling down his cheeks and he stood, hiding his head in his hand and stumbling away from the bed. 

“Woah! Hey! Spain? What’s wrong?” England got up off the bed, shocked at how suddenly he changed, going from hot and heavy to distant and teary. He came closer, eyebrows knitted together in concern. They had come so far, mostly through his swamp of bullshit, and now it seemed it was Spain who was sinking. He wanted to help but didn’t know how, he didn’t even know what had happened. He put his hand on Spain’s shoulder, felt the tremble there. 

“Listen, I was just going to massage you, really! We- we don’t have to do- we don’t have to do anything… I just, Spain… What happened?” England asked, keeping his voice low, his tone gentle. 

Spain shook his head, trying to speak but instead, a hiccuping sob escaped his lips, stealing the air from his lungs, upon finding himself unable to utter a word, he just shook his head again, wiping at his eyes, lip quivering every time he tried to regain control. 

“Jesus, is this what I was like? Come here, let me hold you…” England said, trying to pull him closer, his arms open to accept him. He didn’t have to know what was going on to offer comfort. Spain had been so patient with him, he wanted to at least try and return the favor.

Spain's whole body shook as England held him, hand gripping onto England's forearm and trying to remove it.

Too close.

Too close.

He needed to escape.

He looked around for an escape route, only seeing the door. It was too far away. He crumpled to his knees, as more sobs racked his body. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck… Spain! Come on, please, I’m sorry! I don’t know what I did!” He kneeled in front of Spain, between him and the door, but didn’t try to touch him again. His heart had twisted when he felt the way Spain clawed to get away from him, the way he quivered from his touch. He didn’t know what to do, but he wasn’t going to try that again. “Hey, hey, can you hear me?”

Spain couldn't stop shaking, couldn't stop crying, he wanted to be comforted but didn't want physical contact, he wanted to be free but knew the price that came with it. He was scared. He hadn't had the time to fully process everything that had happened and now it was catching up with him. 

He wasn't sure what sent him over the edge. He couldn't even make sense of the situation he was experiencing. He remembered England's words, one in particular sticking out.  _ Bitch.  _ Was that what he was? Then that also meant he was foolish. Foolish for believing England had ever wanted the alliance to be equal, he only wanted it to serve himself… 

And while he wanted to believe England more than anything, to believe his other words about it being a show for his crew, he didn't know which to believe. So he grimaced. Another sob reverberated through his whole body. There was no way to escape, for everyone knew who he was to England. 

Then the rum, oh shit the rum, he'd been over too many barrels, drunk from orificial drinking that extended much further than his mouth. That'd been enough to knock him into sobriety possibly for the rest of his life. And the torture, the constant stabbing and shooting, and dying… what the hell was he doing?  _ Why?  _

England watched as Spain crumbled and felt helpless to do anything. He knew he shouldn’t touch him, he wasn’t getting through to him with words, he considered slapping him - but immediately thought better of it. What had Spain done for him when he was falling apart? England remembered being held, but that was out. He had sung to him, but he didn’t trust his voice, he wasn’t a natural singer like Spain. He ran over to a cabinet and opened it, pulling his violin case out and hastily tightening the bow, mind casting about for an appropriate song. Nothing too chipper, nothing too dour, had to strike the right balance and he had to play it well enough. He regretted not practicing more… 

England rushed back over, sank to his knees, and began to play - a slow yet powerfully rolling song, an old one from his land, one that spoke of passion, of desire, of the inability to touch and connect.  _ She’s sweetest when she’s naked -  _ but Spain was sweetest when he was looking at him. He wanted to see those eyes again, locked onto him, not whatever memory was plaguing him. England kept playing, getting a bit better as he went, adding extra notes and flairs, little runs, and a sour-sweet double note of resolving harmonies. It was a minor song, but more wistful than sad. As he reached the repeat he breathed and glanced up, looking to see if anything was getting through. 

At the sound of the music, Spain felt himself calm, just slightly, but he focused on the violin, focused on the strings, the bow, the melody, rather than the nightmare in his mind. He breathed a sigh, eyes remaining glued to the floor, but just that little bit more grounded than before, his fingertips traced along the grain of the wooden floor, taking in every minor detail. 

Eventually, he came back to himself, a combination of sensory input grounding him and helping him focus. His mind felt like mush, thick and swampy and his whole body ached unbelievably. His eyes finally raised, looking at England. 

He saw the concern, the passing glances just to check on him, the fact England had shown yet another side to him, only to him. That he knew such a soft and gentle song, played it for him. 

He was finally living for himself. 

That was why…

England kept playing, softer, waiting for a long note before he asked, “Hey there, you come back to me yet?” Spain looked calmer, fingers scraping idly across the surface of the floor, no longer clenched or shaking. 

"I'm sorry…" were the first broken words to leave Spain's lips.

England finished the song and set the violin aside but continued to kneel before Spain, fingers twitching to touch him but still not daring. 

“What could you possibly be sorry for? After all the shit I put you through I think it was more than your turn to freak out. You don’t need to apologize for that, but I do want to know… What it was about if you can tell me? I just… Don’t want to… you know, set it off because of something I did…” England said, not sure what to do with his hands, where to look. Eventually, he clasped them in his lap, glanced up to look Spain in the eye. Fuck, he still didn’t look quite right. 

Spain looked away, tempted to lie to avoid destroying the mood any further, wanting nothing more than to recover what they'd lost and enjoy it. 

But instead, he just said softly, "I guess rum is still a bit of a sore point…" he reached for England's hands. 

England gratefully took his hands as they reached out for him, gripping them and squeezing slightly, reassuring him he was there. But the words, he didn’t understand. England thought back, when  _ had _ Spain stopped drinking? When he really focused on it, all he could remember was Spain politely declining - rum, wine, it didn’t matter. Then it hit England as he went back to when Spain had first been captured when he was being put in his place… Over a barrel, forcing rum up his ass, fucking him unconscious. 

_ Oh _ … 

Somehow he’d forgotten about that. Spain apparently hadn’t. 

“Shit! Spain! That was… I wouldn’t do that to you again, and if I’d known… Back then, well, fuck… I don’t know. I probably still would have done it at first… But the rum, fuck, I’m- I’m sorry I did that to you… I didn’t realize you were still, uh, still thinking about that…” England trailed off, he tried to soothe his thumbs over the back of Spain’s hands as he held them. He wasn’t sure what the right thing to say was… Why was Spain bothered by it  _ now _ after everything else they’d done in between? 

Spain's voice cracked, "I never stopped… the sight, the smell, it all takes me back…" 

“Fuck, and I’ve been drinking it, and pushing it on you, and no doubt smelling and tasting like it, and… I guess it had to come out sometime…” England bit his lip, brought Spain’s hands to his mouth, and carefully placed a kiss on the tip of each finger. “I can’t change what I did… But I can promise you I’ll never put you in that position again. I’ll never shove rum up your ass. I’ll never fuck you over a barrel - unless you want me to. So… What do you want to do now? I mean… How do you feel?” England asked, trepidation evident. 

Spain acknowledged his apologetic words with a slight nod, biting his lip and looking away again. "I… Kind of want to continue where we left off… if the mood hasn't been too destroyed…" 

This tactic England was far more comfortable with rather than promises and processing. Using sex to not think about issues was a favorite of his. Especially since alcohol was off the table. He smiled, eyes regaining their confident green glint. The fingers against England’s mouth which he’d been kissing, he slowly licked down his index and sucked it into his mouth, rolling his tongue against it and lowering his eyelids as he looked at Spain. 

Spain hummed softly, closing his eyes and pressing his finger down against England's tongue. His cheeks were already rosy again. 

England sucked him down further, tongue dipping between to tickle the sensitive webbing of his fingers, letting go of Spain’s hand entirely in order to come closer on his hands and knees. 

“Don’t worry, I think I can get us back there…” England murmured, bedroom eyes already back in his head. While he went back to sucking Spain’s fingers, focusing on his long middle finger this time, England brought his hands up to finish unbuttoning Spain’s shirt and spread it open. 

Spain moaned softly, opening his eyes to watch England, feeling himself grow hard in his pants as England kept sucking his fingers. Who knew that was what he liked? He certainly didn't… with a soft sigh he thought about everything else he'd discovered since being on the ship, there was a lot that England had somehow discovered and shown him. 

England kept his hands moving. Now that he knew what it was that freaked Spain out he felt better pushing in a different direction. 

"Hey, can you get back up on the bed? I still want to massage you if that's okay," England asked, going back to sucking and licking another finger after he said it.

Spain nodded, standing up shakily and making his way over to the bed, still moving stiffly. He sat on the edge and beckoned for England who clambered up after him and kept going, pushing him back to the bed and descending over him with firm open hands. He stroked up over his pecs, digging his thumbs into the meat under his clavicle, pressing and rubbing at the tension below his skin. He straddled him, laid out on the bed, and after a moment England grabbed the oil and drizzled some over Spain’s front, rubbing it into his skin, massaging the muscles beneath, taking his time over his shoulder, down his arms. He shifted his hips as he worked, slightly teasing but not meant to distract from the massage. Simple gratifying touch with no other intention behind it. 

“If I do something, or go too far, just say the word,” England said, gaze soft but focused as he rubbed. 

Spain groaned softly, nodding, "okay…" he mumbled, watching England closely, feeling himself flushing down to his chest. Cheeks alight thanks to the tender touch. 

England hummed as he worked, the same song he'd been playing before. Where he had no confidence singing he knew he could at least keep a tune this way. It seemed to extend the moment of tenderness from before, made his touches feel all the more caring. Once Spain's front had been thoroughly oiled and rubbed down and relaxed, England softly whispered to him "Alright now can you roll over for me?"

Spain nodded, taking a minute to muster the strength in his relaxed arms to turn himself over, he settled into the bed again, hugging a pillow as he looked over his shoulder. "Ready." 

"Good, love, now just relax. Let me take care of you," England said, crawling back over to straddle Spain's upper thighs. He drizzled more oil across his back and pressed the ball of his hands deep into his flesh, rolling his way up alongside his spine, fingers dipping in to massage and manipulate the meat around each vertebra. When he reached the shoulder blades, he spread his hands wide, thumbs feeling the deep troughs formed on either side and plowing them using the digit. Spain's back was like steel cables, tight and tense and England had to lean his weight into his hands to break them up and soften the connections. He groaned in sympathy when he came across a knot, rubbing it in hard circles until it gave a tiny pop of lactic acid and released.

"Been carrying some stress, have you?" England asked with a soft chuckle. "I know, it's because of me isn't it?"

Spain hissed as the knot popped, then he answered honestly, "I'm stressed about a lot of things…" he buried his head into the pillow and tried to focus on the massage rather than the thoughts plaguing his mind. 

"Would it help to tell me about it? I can actually listen, you know. Sometimes," England admitted with a half-smile. 

"It's okay, I'd rather not… not now, at least. For now, I want to enjoy this…" he nuzzled the pillow.

"Heard. Just relax and let me do everything," England commanded softly, working his thumbs beneath his shoulder blades again, using his fingers to pinch the tissue underneath. He worked his way back down, grinding and rubbing his fingers rhythmically down his back. He shook some more oil into his palms, warming it before he went back down, praying his palms against the round muscle of his ass. He focused on where tissue met bone, finding tendons and plucking them, rolling tension out between his fingers like overworked dough. 

Spain moaned at that, all of it felt so good, so gentle, but there was something about it being  _ there _ , where he'd been so hurt and abused over his time on England's ship. He felt self-conscious in a way, wondering whether it'd healed from Lucille's twisted attack, whether it'd left jagged scars, whether it looked as bad as it still felt. 

It made him want to hide away.

England focused on the tight tender connection between his hipbone and the firm flesh around it, England scooted himself lower on Spain’s legs, lowered himself so his chest hovered over his ass, arms bent at the elbow to work more deeply into the thick muscle. He was close enough that it would be easy to rim him, but England was focused on the massage, wasn’t even thinking of sex at that moment, just chasing down knots and sore spots to rub into warm jelly. 

Spain felt his thoughts melt away, much like his muscles, feeling safe and secure and finally free to relax. 

"Thank you…" he mumbled.

“Of course, love. You’ve done so much for me, been so patient… It’s the least I could do,” England said quietly, with a small smile. “Anywhere in particular needs some more attention?”

Spain hummed, looking over his shoulder with a smile, "I can think of a few places." 

England recognized the tone instantly, his hands went from rubbing to grabbing a bit more, sliding down so he could lay fully over top of Spain. He leaned forward and kissed at the nape of his neck, hands stroking up his sides. 

“Oh yeah? Wanna show me where?” 

Spain sighed contentedly at the feeling of the gentle weight against him. "Oh, I think you know." 

England chuckled warmly, licking up the vertebrae of his neck. His dick waking up to the warm body beneath him, the sultry tone of his voice. 

“I do know…” England responded, his voice low with lust. He fit so nicely against Spain, his ass slotting his dick, and it burrowed right between his thighs as he grew and lengthened. England’s hand crept around the front of Spain’s throat, grabbing his chin and tilting him up slowly so his head wasn’t hiding, so his back naturally arched, ass rising with it. “I know you want me to make you feel good,” England declared, not specifying how. He squeezed beneath Spain’s front with his other hand, finding the tie to his pants and loosening it, enough that he could shove it down to his upper thighs. 

Spain moaned, the sound low in his throat. 

"Don't… don't fuck my ass, okay…?" Spain almost whimpered, his voice cracking at the request and he closed his eyes, not ready for anything to be anywhere near his hole after Lucille… 

England’s smile faded, he knew exactly why. He let go of Spain’s chin and shifted back to rub reassuringly against his neck instead, the other hand moving to his hip, thumbing small shapes there. 

“Don’t worry, I already figured as much. I have other things on the menu. Don’t think about that now, just focus on me, love,” England breathed, wriggling his hips so his hardening dick sank between Spain’s warm legs. Once in place his grabbed the vial of oil and drizzled it down Spain’s crack, leaking over his hole, his balls, England’s dick at the center - once the lubrication reached him England stopped rubbing Spain’s neck and instead, gently, slowly, giving him a chance to say something to the contrary, pressed him down, down, down, until he was pinned against the bed. England, still straddling his legs keeping them tightly clamped together, jerked Spain’s hips up, both their dicks ramrod between his thighs. England groaned as he felt Spain’s balls draped over him, their dicks touching even from the back. Spain was bent over, ass up, head down, pinned in place and a dick between his legs, oil squelching between them. 

“How about like this?” England panted into his ear. 

Spain panicked at first, feeling the oil drizzle against the one place he'd set a limit on, but upon feeling what England had planned, he groaned quietly, hissing, "yes…" and tried to nod with little success.

“Good… Tell me if anything hurts,” England growled, already starting up his rhythm. He used his whole body to roll into his hips, sliding warm and wet with oily friction between the soft skin of his thighs. The hand holding his hip in place moved around to handle Spain’s dick, holding him and jerking him, thumb sliding and smoothing over the head while his hands and fingers worked up and down. 

“Damn, your legs feel nice, I knew it would be good like this… Do you feel it? Do you like it, Spain?” England asked breathless, bucking up so he was sliding across his balls as well. 

Spain gripped onto the bedcovers, gasping and moaning with every thrust, trembling from the exertion of forcibly staying in position, but he was enjoying himself too much to care, the praise was intoxicating, and he moaned helplessly. 

"Feels good…" he moaned, "really good…"

“Good, good boy…” England growled, removing his hand from Spain’s neck, confident he would hold the position in order to give them both the best angle. England kept his hips moving, his hand moving in tandem, beating Spain along, his free hand coming back to massage and rub against his taint, knowing how it made him moan last time. It felt good, giving him pleasure in a way he knew was wanted. It felt good for him too, but he wanted Spain to get the best treatment. His hand and fingers now wet with warm oil, England slid his middle finger up along Spain’s crack and slowly pressed a single knuckle inside. His thumb kept a steady kneading pressure on his perineum, other hand moving faster as he jerked Spain off, hips slamming him harder as well, making everything shudder and move with England’s energy. “How’s that? Do you feel that?” 

Spain bit his lip, the angle making his neck hurt oh so sinfully, he whined and whimpered against the pillow beneath his head. He could feel it, he could feel the pressure against his balls, his dick, the friction, that even when oiled up, offered more than enough stimulation. 

"Yes… Yes…!" Spain cried, mouth open and a small string of drool connecting to and smearing against the pillow with a particularly hard thrust. 

"Fuck…" he cursed. A litany of English and Spanish curses passing his lips as he writhed. 

“Yeah, you like that… You want more, don’t you?” England asked, sinking in up to his second knuckle, still not moving it, just working on handling Spain’s dick and thrusting between his slick thighs. It was so hot, the way Spain bowed toward him, ass twitching around his finger, the sound of his dick rubbing against the underside of his, England squeezed his knees together hard, forcing Spain’s thighs to clamp over him even harder. “Ah, Spain! You’re so tight, fuck that feels so good…” His oiled finger was sunk all the way in now, and England started to do that move France had pulled on him not too long ago. Middle finger inside Spain, thumb pressed against his taint outside, England pinched the two digits together, pressing against the pulsing vein on Spain’s floor. His hips and hand never stopped, going even faster as he remembered how it felt, imagined how it could feel with a partner who wanted it, and suddenly he was gasping - shaking and shuddering and he came, right between Spain’s oiled thighs. 

Spain cried out, the sound low with lust and need and desperation. The sensation was unreal, he didn't even realize how close he was to cumming until he toppled over the edge with a cry of England's name on his lips, spilling over his hand and the bed. He trembled and whined as England milked him through his orgasm, finally parting his legs, still bent at the knee, and collapsing to the bed in a boneless heap with a long moan. 

Because of the way his legs were open, his ass remained in the air, just a little bit, and he groaned softly as he remembered the pure pleasure England had given him. How many things had changed… 

He exhaled deeply, sensitive yet sated, and he looked over his shoulder at England with a soft smile. 

England saw the look in his eye and smiled back warmly, still coming down from his high. He slid his middle finger out of Spain's hole just as carefully as he'd gone in. Once removed he traced little wet circles along the backs of his legs.

"I knew you'd like that…" England breathed, pleased with himself.

"You can definitely do that again," Spain said quietly, eyes feeling heavy. "Massage and all." He smirked, but it was then that he realized England's finger had  _ just  _ left his ass. His blood went cold. 

"That… wasn't just inside me was it?" 

"Mmm, yeah. Massage you from the inside too," England hummed, completely missing the way Spain stiffened, the tone in his voice.

"I said not to fuck my ass!" Spain jumped up, fixing his pants. "How could you do that?" 

"Wait, what? Spain, I didn't! I just used a finger-" England started, surprised by the sudden shift in mood.

"I said not to fuck my ass! And what do you do? You stick a finger up there? Fuck this. Fuck you!" 

Spain didn't even bother cleaning himself up, didn't bother putting his shirt back on, instead he left the cabin, shivering as he went onto the deck, where it was now pitch black, slippery under his feet, and raining lightly.

He could feel the leering stares of the men from the vessel, whispers, and murmurs all repeating the one word he hated the most. 

"Bitch." 

He clambered up to the helm, seeing Mateo and instantly sinking against the wheel shaft. 

**"Cap'n?"**

**"Don't call me that anymore."**

\----

Being together with Spain meant constantly being in a state of vertigo. He couldn't tell up or down, when he was flying and when he was falling. Every time he felt he might finally understand what was going on either a skeleton of his jumped out of the closet or Spain metaphorically shoved him off the bed. The latest instance shouldn't have surprised him as much as it did, given their history; they could never have a simple joyful moment between them it seemed. 

England had no idea what had happened. He thought he was making Spain feel good, doing everything right, watching him carefully making sure he didn't go too far. Spain had gotten upset, but England couldn't figure it out. He'd said not to fuck him and England hadn't, wasn't even thinking about sticking his dick anywhere near him. Spain leaving in a huff like that threw England for a loop and he was too dizzy to follow him and try and figure it out. 

He slumped on the bed, irritated and sorry for himself. His eyes rested on the flagon and he groaned. He desperately wanted to keep drinking, but he couldn't get Spain's voice or of his hurt eyes out of his head. He'd planned on not drinking after Spain's outburst, but that was before he'd left him alone in bed with no explanation. Now, getting even more drunk seemed like the only option. 

"Stupid Spain, constantly changing his tune… Gonna get twice as drunk now, see how he likes that…" England grumbled, pouring himself a cup to the brim and sipping at it, enjoying the comforting forgetful burn. Rum was more reliable than Spain, it seemed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sucking out the venom is NOT the way to treat a snake bite! It’s a romantic myth that we’re indulging in. It’s fine. England doesn’t know that lol. Lucille’s snake is a Western Green Mamba. One bite can kill 25 men, hence the cycle of death Spain got stuck in. 
> 
> This is the song England played. Though he wasn’t this good, ha. Even immortals don’t practice enough. XD https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=50P79CVLhWA
> 
> Who else has ended up in a pickle because of differing definitions of sex?! I feel like it’s way more common than people realize. These two never get a break, haha!


	11. Turbulent Like the Sea Breeze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England and Spain struggle to find their heading.

**"It's all I can hear…"** Spain groaned, hiding his head against his knees, hand in the hair at his nape.  **"I'm not a captain anymore, I'm just** **_his_ ** **bitch. He didn't even listen to me when I told him not to fuck my ass! He still went and did it..."**

Mateo kept his eyes trained ahead, focusing on the rough weather and the dark night but still listening to Spain. 

**"I mean, we fucking started an alliance and then he just discredits it as soon as France leaves and suddenly I'm just his bitch? What the fuck? Was he just using me until France left? Dick."**

**"What did you expect?"**

Spain sighed, looking down,  **"something more…"**

**"Why?"**

**"Because…"** Why did Spain expect more from such a man?  **"He…"**

**"Because you** **_like_ ** **him."**

**"Wh--"**

**"Don't try to deny it, we both know it."**

Spain huffed, moving to stand and walking down the stairs onto the deck, approaching the rail and looking down at the inky waters below. With a sigh he climbed onto the rail sitting down on the wood with another long sigh. He looked up at the sky, remembering what Mateo first told him. El mismo sol. The same sun. Funny how he never felt more apart from England… 

Spain sat on the rail, stewing in his emotions and growing more and more full of rage, how fucking dare England use him in that way. He twisted around on the rail, deciding this wasn't over. 

He settled back on the deck, stomping over toward England's quarters. He pushed inside, seeing England on the bed taking a long swig from the flagon in his hand. Typical. 

"Get your mouth off that fucking flagon and kiss me." He was soaked from the rain, chest streaked with spray from the sky, he was cold, shivering uncontrollably and his feet were almost blue from walking around barefoot in a storm. He never felt more pathetic. 

England nearly choked on the rum in his mouth, moving the flagon aside as he saw Spain coming in hot and wet like a spring storm. 

“Really? And you call  _ me  _ moody! You really wanna kiss me or do you want to freak the fuck out again and run away again?  _ Bitch _ !” England swore at Spain, simultaneously glad he was back and trying to top him, made him excited and heart-pounding and dick hard recognizing that fire in his eyes. But the rum, the raw way he left, the lack of understanding, England fell back on his old tactics of being mean, being rude, belittling where he could. Once the rum was in him he barely realized he was doing it. 

Spain stalked over to the bed before England had even finished the  _ word.  _ Ire licked at his body, Spain looked at him down his nose, his eyes narrow and brows knitted together. 

He straddled England, grabbing the flagon and tossing it aside with a clatter to the floor. He gripped England's hair and exposed his throat, getting in his face and snarling, "you  _ dare _ fuck me after I told you not to? I have every right to shoot you in the head, strap you in irons, and take control of this ship,  _ Captain."  _

England shivered, growing furious, horny - growling and grinning up at Spain with a feral-wide smile. “I  _ didn’t _ fuck you, bitch, but I can easily fix that. You gonna stop me? You gonna fuck me instead? Bring it on - show me what you got,” England snarled, hoping to both insult and entice in the same line. 

Spain felt his rage somehow grow if it were possible. He lifted from England's hips, rearing his hand back, and his fist connected with England's cheekbone, a satisfying crunch of bony skin on bony skin. 

He was going to show England what fucking was. 

He undid the laces of England's trousers tearing them down his legs to below the knees. Spain lifting him up and working his fingers against puckered flesh, not bothering with grease or oil - he'd show him fucking. 

England groaned and shook his head from the blow to his face, spitting blood before crying out again as Spain spread him. He gasped a breath and snarled at Spain. 

“O-oh yeah? That’s how it’s gonna be? I’m gonna lovingly kiss your ass while you shove it in? Well, come on then! I’m waiting! Fucking tear me open already, you shitty lover!” England lifted his hips to meet Spain’s fingers, arching against the bed to thrust his hips against Spain, responding enthusiastically to his lead. Though he was horny and slutty in return, he didn’t fight for dominance. Happily and breathily submitted, even as he knew it was gonna be rough. Still, taking it too fast - drunk and in a fight - felt way easier than the earned intimacy from before. 

Spain felt a sting in his chest from the shitty lover comment, after everything he'd done for him… 

He shoved his finger into England, immediately working against his prostate, "you don't think this is fucking? It fucking is, you swine!  _ Penetration  _ is  _ fucking,  _ dumbass!" 

England laughed at him, actually had to close his eyes and shake his head, “Oh, good lord, how dumb are you? Come on, stick it in me already. You’re not even fucking me yet, are you? I can’t feel it,” England taunted, wiggling his hips and scratching his nails down Spain’s arm. If he was gonna fuck him rough, then he was going to be a rough fuck. 

"You can't feel it? Damn, France and I must've  _ really _ stretched you out already, huh?" He added a second finger, and then a third, without any form of lubrication. "Can you feel it now?" He asked, pushing his fingers in all the way. "You tell everyone  _ I'm  _ your bitch, but if only they could see you now." 

England cringed but also laughed louder, feeling strangely powerful, despite being laid out on the bed, his ass being wrenched open in a fiery burn. 

“You’re the idiot who agreed to it… You’re under me… Even now,” England grinned, flinging an arm out to grab Spain by his fringe and drag him down closer, kissing him recklessly. It wasn’t like before, it wasn’t tender - it was drunk and dominating and England giggled through it even as he forced their lips together. 

"I agreed to nothing!" Spain argued against his lips, eyes alight with fury and he twisted his fingers inside England. "I was stupid for even  _ thinking  _ you could actually care about anyone other than yourself!" He hissed against England’s lips.

England couldn’t hold back his cry when Spain crooked his fingers inside him, harsh and abrasive, nails digging in unpleasantly. But this was the type of violence he was more used to, he could handle it even if Spain was being completely unreasonable. “Was I thinking about myself before? When I made you feel good for no other reason than that? Just shut up and fuck me, if you even can, asshole,” England said, resisting the urge to grab his dick which Spain was ignoring. 

"We both know that was to placate me after calling me a bitch," Spain hissed. 

“And yet here you are, still being one,” England growled in return, twisting the hair he still held. 

Spain grimaced, muttering, "then this alliance is over." And he removed his fingers, "until you can realize what you had, you can't have me." 

England didn’t know what to make of that threat, of Spain moving away from him instead of into him, realizing a few seconds too late what he’d said, that he actually meant it, that he was going to leave… Because… because why? He wasn’t fuckable? His pugnacious attitude which had been enhanced by rum, funneled into his words and his libido, suddenly jumped ship onto his abandonment and England could only hear a low buzzing in his ears as he reached behind the bed’s headboard and grabbed the knife hidden there. He reared up and with an outraged roar, he grappled Spain back down to the bed and raised the dagger high overhead. It would be easy to stab him, pin him to the baseboard and show him how it was done, but something about stabbing him through that hand a third time made him hesitate, swing the knife down to stab through the fabric on the shoulder of his jacket and immobilize him that way. “It’s not over until I say it’s over…” England said slowly, pinning Spain down. 

"Oh, sure, rape me  _ again.  _ That proves my point! You  _ don't care about me,  _ hijo de puta!" Spain's eyes were wide with anger and upset, glassy and he reached for England to try and keep him away. 

“Don’t care?  _ Don’t care _ ?! If I didn’t care you would be at the bottom of the ocean with your dead crew. If I didn’t care I’d rent your ass out to every horny man here. If I didn’t care I wouldn’t be here yelling at you right now!” England had him by the shirt, shaking him as he made each point. Then he grinned, loosened his fists and slid them open-palmed across Spain’s chest. “Besides I think it would be pretty hard to rape you at this point. You just get  _ so  _ into it, begging me to fuck you, saying please, storming in here demanding a kiss… Which is it Spain? Do you want it or not?” England yelled, not caring that he was audible on deck. 

Spain gripped England's wrists, struggling to lift him from his chest, he snarled as he pushed against England. 

"You  _ know _ that's not how it works, England!" He scowled, lifting his hands enough to press their palms together and link their fingers together and push against him that way instead. "You're an asshole! After everything I've done for you and the moment France is gone this alliance means shit to you! I'm  _ just your bitch _ ." 

“Don’t bring him into this! He’s got nothing to do with your fickle attitude! First, it’s oh, I love being with you, next you’re running away. First, it’s don’t fuck my ass, next you’re accusing me of rape. Leaving the alliance?! That’s the bitchiest thing you could possibly do! If you’re not under my wing where does that leave you? I’ll tell everyone you’re on your own and we’ll see how long it takes for someone to get you. If you’re not with me then you’re just a prisoner again! Do you really want that, Spain?” England shouted.

"I'd rather be a prisoner than lesser than you. After all, what's the difference?" Spain hissed, tears trekking down his temples and disappearing into his hairline. "This alliance was meant to be something that bettered us, not… this!" 

England laughed again, though his chest hurt terribly hearing Spain’s words, only laughing to mask his shaking, subvert his need to cry. 

“I thought things were getting better. I can’t do anything about it when you change your mind; when you change the rules. But you really can’t tell the difference? You really want to go back to how things were before? Because I’ll do it, I’ll bend you over a barrel and bottle-feed your ass until you’re blind drunk - fuck you like the first time, l-like Lucille even! You still think there’s no difference? Between that and-and us now?” England knew he was drunk, knew he was doing more than crossing a line, he was skipping back and forth over it in his destructive drunken wrath. He had to get angry otherwise he would completely fall apart. He didn’t want to go back to that, it was so damn lonely.

Spain swallowed, heart beating so fast he was certain it was skipping beats altogether. His expression crumpled and the tears were flowing freely now. 

"Prove it. Prove to me that it's different…" Spain said, his arms losing the fight and falling back against the bed, letting England fall forward with their fingers still locked together. "Because right now all I see is that you call the shots and I'm expected by everyone to follow… I'm a captain too, dammit!" 

England heard a dozen responses all at once - you’re not a captain though, that’s how it has to be, why wouldn’t you want to follow me? - but he was silent, focused on Spain’s hand in his, the way tears ran freely down his cheeks rather than screwing them in tighter like he was doing. He wasn’t afraid to show when he cared, unlike England. He didn’t have the right words, didn’t want to make empty promises he’d later forget or intentionally violate. Spain said to prove it, so England let his actions speak for him.

He leaned down and licked his lips, slowly moving closer, giving Spain a chance to deny this if he didn't want it. He stopped, braced by his forearms on either side of Spain's head, his lips a breath away from Spain's. 

Spain looked up at him, meeting his gaze for all of a few seconds before looking away again, eyes hooded, unable to maintain eye contact with such an intense stare. 

England didn’t want to risk anything else being misunderstood and hesitated before asking. 

“Do you want me to kiss you?” England knew he was hard against him but didn’t move or grind or go any further. Didn’t know where the line was between them anymore. 

Spain felt his cheeks warm, nodding before slowly closing the distance between them. Hands coming up to stroke his cheeks. England felt his touch, the way he craned up to meet him, and captured his lips in an aggressive kiss, hoping it felt more passionate than tipsy. He gave a soft little whimper against his lips as they slid and wet against each other. 

Spain couldn't help the quiet moan that escaped his lips, more tears rolling down his cheeks as he kissed him deeply and with earnest. He didn't dare open his eyes, more out of fear, too afraid that he was dreaming or imagining it. 

His hands worked into England's hair at his nape, arms wrapped around his shoulders. It felt good to England and he melted into the touch, draped heavily over his body, breathing faster through his nose, not wanting to lose contact with his lips for a moment. He missed this, for all the centuries he’d gone hating it and avoiding it, now that he realized he’d been doing it wrong the whole time and he desperately wanted to make up for the lost time. He broke apart for just a moment to gasp, “Please, Spain, don’t go,” before delving back in for another probing kiss, sweeping his tongue into his mouth and tasting him, his unique sunny flavor. 

Spain heard the desperation in his voice, the rasping breath he managed, and the way he spoke so gently. 

"I won't," Spain whimpered, tongue meeting England's, able to taste the rum on his tongue, finding himself not so afraid when it was mixed with something uniquely England. 

England whined high up in his throat, feeling a small thrill of anticipation. Spain threatening to leave sent him into a downward spiral. Reconfirming their alliance, his allegiance, his desire to stay, sent him floating back upward again, like embers in a fire lifted on the shared heat of their desire. England wanted more, wanted to stoke it until it burned brightly, but still unsettled by how it had fallen apart last time. 

“I- I want more… Spain, can I, uh, can I…?” England asked breathlessly, not sure what he wanted, what was allowed now. 

"Yeah," Spain breathed, before adding softly, "I trust you…" because even though he went against what he'd wanted before, it hadn't hurt. England had been gentle and caring and it hadn't hurt. 

After everything he'd done, and everything England hadn't done, England deserved at least that much. 

Spain kissed him again, whispering to his lips, "I trust you." 

A wave of relief swept against England when he heard those words. He hadn’t realized that it mattered to him, that Spain trusting him was important. It wasn’t just about power or control or getting off anymore… He wanted it, he wanted to earn and treasure that trust, even if he still wasn’t sure how. The tension between leading versus following - taking versus giving - was rising and he didn’t know how to reconcile it. Spain was a confusing puzzle and he didn’t want to lose a piece again, it wasn’t worth it. So, let him have control instead. 

“Claim me, then. Make me yours. Reconfirm that you’re a captain too, that you still want to steer,” England panted, kissing against Spain’s jaw, little pecks peppered across his chin. 

Spain blushed furiously, trying to move but still hindered by the knife in his jacket. He tried to play it cool. "What if I'm quite content where I am?" 

England squirmed uncomfortably. 

"But… I never can figure out what you want, what's okay… I don't want to… I don't want to make you run away again. And - and I'm afraid that's exactly what's gonna happen…" England mumbled, having a hard time admitting he didn't know, that he was clueless in their particular dynamic. 

Spain looked away, feeling guilty, "I'm sorry… I… I was scared - that it'd hurt… it was a shock when it didn't hurt, I panicked… and I'm sorry…" Spain struggled out of his jacket and so he was free, still sopping wet from the rain and he crawled closer to England until he was backed up against the headboard of the bed. He cradled his face and kissed him softly. "I'm sorry… I had no idea you felt that way…" he looked down.

"I had no idea you thought a finger counted as sex, heh…" England paused, remembered something brittle and ancient, something that would destroy him if he connected everything. Maybe Spain wasn't the weird one, maybe Spain was right and England was the one who was confused about what was what. But if that were the case… If that were the case… England shuddered and refused to think about it, felt himself remembering too much already. 

"Spain, I'm sorry, I uh, I'll be right back," England said in a sudden rush, pushing past him to stand up and start pacing rapidly, snagging up the flagon from the floor as he went. "I know you don't like this stuff, and you don't have to have any, I won't ever push it on you, but I really really need some right now, and uh, I'm sorry. I can't…. Do this without it…" England knew he wasn't making sense, knew it sounded like an excuse, but he didn't want to remember, didn't want to think, wanted to be numb instead. Though he knew he'd enjoy sex more if he were soberer, that also meant he'd feel the other stuff too.

Spain watched him go, feeling a sting of rejection, had he done something wrong? 

"England?" He asked, watching him with a concerned gaze, "are… you okay?" He got up from the bed and followed him slowly, not wanting to move too suddenly. 

"Oh I'm fine, I'm fine, really, it's not you… I just- I just never thought of it like that and- and-"  _ and if that were the case then how many times does it count for me? How young  _ was  _ I?  _

There it was. The ugly truth he wanted nothing to do with. Of course, he wouldn't consider fingering to be sex, he'd been groomed to accept that from the very beginning, lied to that it was just something that was done, endured, and repressed later. To think that act was really sex,  _ rape _ , meant he had more baggage than even he'd imagined. 

England shuddered, felt the bottom of his stomach seemingly fall out. He needed to fill it, quick. He threw a frantic, desperate look to Spain but didn't know what to say, what to ask for, and moaned helplessly inarticulate before turning back to the flagon and upturning it against his mouth. 

He was scared, ashamed, knew he looked weak and pathetic nursing from the rum like his life depended on it, but unable to stop anyway. He didn't take a quick shot, he swallowed and swallowed and swallowed, chugging what was made for sipping.

Spain’s expression softened at that moment, walking over to him and resting a hand on his back, rubbing gently up and down, “Hey, hey, it’s okay… you’re okay…” He muttered, trying to put him at ease, knowing it probably wouldn’t help as much as he hoped it would. He gently held him, still rubbing his back and taking hold of his elbow. He didn’t dare try to stop him from drinking, not yet.

He guided him back to the bed, all the while mumbling softly about how it was okay, and just to follow him and hopefully, he’d feel better. 

With a gentle hand but firm grip he took England back to the bed, he sat him down on the bed, wrapping his arms around him and stroking his hair softly. “It’s okay…” he shushed, by now he had an inkling about what was happening, not sure entirely what was happening, but enough to know it likely had something to do with his past… and he had a feeling he’d been the one to trigger it, by constantly bringing up his name… 

“You don’t have to tell me anything, but if getting something off your chest is what you need then please,  _ please  _ tell me.” He kissed his temple and rested his forehead against his cheek, feeling him drinking the rum, smelling it, being reminded of the taste. He could even hear every swallow. 

“I-it’s not even… A specific memory… I just… never thought of that as sex. And if I do think of that as sex, not just… whatever…. Then, then, then - that means I was way younger when it started. And… it happened a lot more than once…” England shuddered, put his face into his hands, felt another shudder pass through him. He was glad for Spain’s hand on his back, his arm draped over his shoulder. He knew he couldn’t do this alone. 

“He said- he said it wasn’t sex so it didn’t count. He said he touched me like that in order to spare me, that- that I should be grateful. And I believed him… Like a fucking idiot, a foolish child, I really  _ believed  _ him,” England breathed through his fingers, leaned against Spain. “It was the only time he touched me. The only time anyone touched me… I- I was so lonely… No wonder I’m so messed up, no wonder I can’t even get the basic shit right…” He wasn’t sure if it was the rum or the bitter pill he was trying to swallow but his stomach was twisted in sailor knots. 

Spain sighed softly, "breathe for me… nice and slow, nice and deep." He felt a quiet rage in his body, in his chest, in his heart. He'd actually kill France over and over again… he'd make him suffer…

"You're safe now…" Spain whispered. "I can't even begin to imagine what you went through, but I know that you're safe with me, I won't let anything happen again, not as long as there's breath in my body…" he smiled softly, hoping his words would help put England at ease. 

His eyes lit up with inspiration. 

"I have an idea." 

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” England asked, sniffing and sighing and breathing deep like Spain said. He still felt out of it, still sick to his stomach both from the remembering and the rum, thought he might need to puke but wasn’t quite there yet. He tried distracting himself by focusing on Spain, on his touch, his voice, his green eyes that sparked when turned in his direction. 

"Okay, well, do you trust me?" Spain asked, holding England's hands.

That question, which not even a day ago held enough weight that it made him want to jump from the crow’s nest, now just floated soft and tired on his brain. What had he been so afraid of? 

“Yeah… I trust you…” England said it in a small, begrudging voice, but it was true. He trusted Spain. The realization brought a small smile to his lips. 

Spain grinned, wide and sunny. "Then follow me." He hoisted England to his feet, leading him out onto the deck. 

By now England's men were either blackout drunk or passed out, it was the early hours of the morning and sunrise wasn't far away anymore. Spain knew it was the perfect time to do such a thing. 

He led England to the helm, smiling as he did so. " **Mateo! You're dismissed, go rest your eyes!"**

Mateo looked up from where he was standing. 

**"Are you--"**

**"I'm sure."**

Mateo nodded, leaving the wheel and the helm behind. Spain looked at England, eyes on fire with life and excitement. 

"Okay, so, no one will be able to hear you because they're all… busy. With one thing or another." He clapped his hands together. "So! We're gonna scream at the ocean." 

England stopped and looked at Spain perturbed. 

“Wait, what? You want us to… Scream at the ocean?” It was such an outrageous idea that England actually had a genuine chuckle about it. “Of course you would come up with such a ridiculous plan…” England smiled. He looked around, not that it mattered when he was the captain, but still. No one was around. The night wind was gentle and cool, with the rain moved on, the waves black and soothing. Shame to shatter such a peace, England thought with a devilish grin. That’s what made it worth doing. “Alright, sure. Why not?”

Spain joined him in grinning widely, "okay, so, Mateo and I used to do this when we were still on land, we'd scream out our fears, our mistakes, hopes, dreams, our worries, and anything else that came to mind from the highest cliffs into the ocean. Although," he laughed, "Mateo often shouted out names of food he wanted to try when we were finally free to roam the seas. And I remember one time I screamed that I was scared that the cows hated me because I kept screaming on their cliff." 

England couldn’t contain it this time and burst out laughing at the thought of Spain being spooked by some cows. It was easy to imagine, Spain and Andorra leaning out over a cliff hollering like fools until they were hoarse. It was that pure idiotic glee that came effortless to Spain but England never could manage on his own. Maybe if he actually tried it. He walked to the edge of the rail and rested his hands on it, feeling the wood grain, the sticky grit of brine. He wondered what he could say, how to possibly sum up everything he was feeling, and found that it was impossible. 

Instead of a word or a name, England at first just drew in a breath and let out a blood-curdling screech from deep in his gut, squeezed out of him like there was a fist in his viscera. It was inarticulate, just pure noise, pure feeling without the need for words. The rage, the humiliation, the shame, the powerlessness, England gave it all voice and they took flight across the dark night waves. Once he’d wrung every bit of air from his body, breathing in deep and fast, his eyes wide with exhilaration. He hadn’t expected it to feel so good. 

Spain had covered his ears, not expecting England to go along with the idea so easily, he laughed as England stopped screaming, joining him on the stern and also screaming incoherently into the pre-dawn twilight until he was bowed over the rail, suddenly, finally, coming up for air with panting breaths. Then he opened his mouth and screamed.

"MY BIGGEST FEAR IS THAT ONE DAY THOSE COWS WILL FIND ME AND STAMPEDE MY ASS!"

England kept laughing as Spain admitted to a rather strange yet appropriately hilarious fear. He draped his arm over Spain’s shoulder when he finished, kept laughing, felt like he’d pulled a cork out of the bottom of him and all the pressure from resurfaced fears and old trauma seemed to bleed out of him. 

“I bet it’s because of all those bulls your matadors keep killing for sport. The cows remind you of your conscience, they can smell all the bull blood on your hands,” England chuckled, imagining Spain running away not from an enraged, thickly-muscled fighting bull, but a lazy-eyed dairy cow ambling after him.

Spain looked at him, laughing too, he wrapped his arm around his shoulders and hollered to the sky. England joined him, and they were both howling at the stars, screaming at the waves, singing to the moon. 

At some point during the ritual, England shouted and actually articulated the words, “FUCK OFF, FRANCE!” before immediately bending over the side of the rail and projectile vomiting all the rum he’d chugged straight into the ocean. It was fast though, one big purge and he was right back up, feeling lighter and better for offloading the pure liquor. It would have been bad if all of that reached his intestines. Instead, letting it all go, the alcohol, the rage, the confusion, it didn’t need to make sense when he was ululating to the vast universe - really only visible on the flattest of horizons offered by the open ocean. 

By the time they were all screamed out, throats raw and lungs hurting, the sun was beginning to paint the horizon in crimson oil brush strokes, watercolor orange, and soft hues of pastel blues. Spain looked at England, his features awash with warmth from the rising sun, even warmer tones of vermillion and ochre sweeping across England's face with harsh lines that also lacked substance, and he smiled, resting a hand over England's on the salt-coated rail. 

England panted from the last round of shouting and turned to grin at Spain.

“What a pair we make, huh?” 

Spain hummed, "We sure do make an odd alliance."

“Constantly up and down, the two of us. Wonder if we’ll ever hit calm waters,” England smiled as he said it, not regretting anything. 

Spain shrugged, "I don't know, but I want to find out." He smiled, kissing England's cheek. 

England leaned into the touch, turning his head to take Spain’s lips more fully. He kissed for only a moment before pulling back and resting his head against Spain’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, I guess I do too,” England murmured, winding his arm around Spain’s waist to hold him closer to his side. 

Spain smiled, "and I don't mind… you know… being  _ called  _ your bitch to uphold your image. But as long as you know we're  _ equal  _ in this alliance." 

England nodded. “Of course, I hadn’t really imagined it any other way,” England paused, wasn’t sure if he should say the next part but they’d already screamed at the ocean together, admitting more seemed natural. “I actually like it when you take charge. It feels nice. Different.” 

Spain flushed, features tinged pink, "I…  _ really?" _ His face only seemed to grow hotter, and he rested his head in his hands. "Damn you," he whined, peeking at England through his fingers. 

England chuckled, turned to nuzzle beneath his arm to nip at Spain’s neck. 

“You love it,” England murmured against his flesh, licking him along the throb of his jugular. He sighed and kissed him again, turning to lean against him again and look out to the ocean. It was tinged a deep dark blue, holding night in its depths even as the sun started to rise. “So… Are you still okay with the arrangement? Anything you want to renegotiate while we’re talking about it?”

Spain had thought about this, wondering what he'd change if given the chance. But his requests were few and selfish, so he'd buried them to the back of his mind and just leaned in against England. 

"I'm fine, is there anything you want to change?"

England felt himself unclenching. 

“You can talk to Andorra about it… I’m sure you already do, but now you don’t have to hide it. I know he’s important to you. And you don’t have to act like a bitch, I mean, like you’re beneath me in public. I’ll try to treat you equally, except when I need to cement my status. Sound fair?” 

Spain nodded, resting his head on England's shoulder. "Oh… unrelated to the alliance, but definitely needed… uhm…" Spain paused unsure how to phrase it. "I… I trust you. That includes during sex. So if you want to fuck me, I trust you…" 

“Oh, uh, thanks… I… Are you okay? Back there I mean?”

Spain shrugged, "I don't know… I mean, it still hurts sometimes, but it should be fully healed by now… so I don't know if it's scarred or if it's… phantom sensations? I don't know." 

“That fucking woman… She just became a nation, she has no idea how that shit stays with you. I’m glad you shot her in the head when they left. She’ll figure it out after that. Maybe…” England muttered. Death and immortality affected each nation differently, they all approached it with a unique philosophy. Who knew what lesson she would learn from this? 

“Anyway… I’ll be careful. And, thank you for trusting me. Even after everything I’ve done. And, just so you know, I trust you too…”

"Thank you… and I think she might have figured it out already. That's why she did it." 

“I hate her. So much. Before I just disliked her, but after what she did to you? I- I wanted to kill her, torture her. And seeing how she was with France… Part of it lies in the fact that we were both raised by him. I hate how much I see myself in her. It’s gross.” 

Spain hummed softly, wrapping his arms around England's middle. "Then maybe she can change too. You've come a long way, a really long way… and maybe she needs steering in the right direction… if you can see yourself in her, then maybe she's been through similar things to you." 

“If she was living with France, there’s no doubt. He at least had the decency to sneak around with me. Girls though? He’s even more shameless,” England said deadpan. Remembering the many maidens France bedded and left broken-hearted even while he continued to haunt his bedroom in the morning twilight. France didn’t know the meaning of limits. 

"Mateo told me he was ten when Andorra was annexed, but she looks older than Mateo…" Spain observed, "not by much, but her features are more mature." 

He looked down, "I don't know… I don't know why I'm even thinking of ways we can set her free." 

England huffed. 

“It’s the same reason why you can put up with me. You’ve got more faith. In more ways than one.” 

Spain scoffed, "or I'm stupid." 

England laughed, head-butted him gently.

"You can definitely be both, ha!"

Spain half-heartedly glared at him, but the look was more affectionate than anything else. 

"Yeah, meanwhile you're just plain stupid."

England laughed more, not insulted at all. 

"Probably! From all the shit I drink no doubt," 

Spain hummed, "want to get a drink and go back to the cabin? I'll even have a sip."

“Really? You don't have to twist my arm! Just don’t push yourself too hard. You don't have to do it to impress me or anything,” England pushed off the rail, still holding Spain as they sauntered back to his quarters.

"I know~" Spain smiled, staggering with him, "I'm… feeling better." 

“Good. I feel like we’ve both had our share of strife tonight, don’t you? Let’s just enjoy ourselves the rest of this night. Or, well, morning now, I guess,” England chuckled looking at the brightening horizon. 

Spain smiled wider, "sounds like a plan." 

England opened the door for Spain and led him in, not wanting to wait for the bed. Once the door was shut he pushed him against the closed door and began to kiss him on the mouth, moaning and getting right into it, hand roaming over his body and a thigh moving between his legs.

Spain moaned, fingers running into England's hair and he hooked his leg around England's thighs. Grinding against the thigh between his legs, he shuddered and moaned softly. 

He swept his tongue into Spain’s mouth, breathing in his scent, enjoying how much easier it was, how much he could slide into the sensation, how it was pleasurable and not an obligation. He pulled back and licked his lips, nodding against Spain’s forehead and catching his eyes. 

“How do you want to do this? I feel like I can take it if you want to top…”

Spain thought for a moment, then he pulled England closer and whispered to his lips, "dominate me." Before stealing his lips in a kiss. 

England exhaled heavily, groaning into the press, crushing him even harder against the door, his whole body beginning to shift against him and grind him into pleasurable submission like he wanted. 

“Don’t worry, I will - but first, let me indulge,” England whispered against his lips before going right back to kissing him. He wanted more, wanted to feel it, wanted to suck his face for hours. It still felt amazing to England how Spain had helped him flip some sort of internal switch. What was once disgusting and worth mocking suddenly was delightful and worth pursuing. When had he become so sentimental? 

He ran his hands over Spain’s body, sinking into his clothes and wrenching his shirt open, not stopping kissing for a moment, if anything his lips became more desperate, turning hotter and wetter from the friction upon them.

Spain moaned against England's mouth, working his lips more fervently against England's and shuddered under his touch. Spain breathed through his nose, wanting more and more from the other man, desperate not to let the kiss end. 

He lightly bit England's bottom lip and sucked it into his mouth before laving over the bite and continuing the kiss. 

“Ah!” England gasped from the bite, and to retaliate he squeezed his hand down between their connected bodies and under Spain’s pants, rubbing his palm flat over his half-hard cock, pressing in harder with his pelvis so everything was crushed together under pressure. He swirled his tongue around Spain’s and surged into his mouth, pinning him hard to the door, forcing his head back from the kiss, taking control like he wanted. 

Without letting him catch the new rhythm he grabbed Spain by the back of his neck, not letting him get away, not letting him pull back. He kept their faces connected and pulled him off the wall, spinning them around - kissing, kissing, kissing - almost like they were dancing, and then they hit the bed and England finally broke their connection as he shoved Spain down on it, staying standing himself so he could admire his handiwork. 

Spain cried out at the pressure on his cock, pulling away from the kiss just long enough to make the sound. 

Then he was dizzy as he was spun around until he was on the bed. Spain was panting as he hit the bed, the bedsheets pooling around him. He looked up at England, but his eyes were lust-hazed and unfocused, pupils blown wide and almost unseeing. 

He fought to regain his breath, loving England's expression and living for the look in his eyes. His shirt was billowed around him, open and exposing his chest. And his lips were red and well-bitten, face rosy. 

“God, you look delectable right now…” England admired, grinning and crossing his arms over his chest. “Like you were made for this or something…” 

Spain squirmed, face flushing even more before humming softly, making a show of the way he was lying. He stretched, back arching and chest sticking out, bringing his legs up to bend them at the knee before groaning softly. 

"And what are you going to do about it?" He smirked. 

“Gonna make you take care of this…” England replied in a low voice, rubbing his hand over the front of his pants. He kneeled on the bed and crawled over Spain, hovering above him before swooping in to bite up his chest, nipping his neck, pausing over the snake wound, and England’s following bite wound, neither had enough time to heal fully. He pecked at it, barely touching the edges, tiny little licks against the scabs. He sighed slightly. 

“Sorry, that I bit you when you were out… I- I thought it would help… But then I just went too far with it…” England settled himself on top of Spain, nosing under his chin. 

Spain's hands found England's hair, stroking and carding through the stands. 

"It's okay… thank you for staying with me." 

England paused, right up close to it, looking at the blue-green mottled skin, the rough angry purple edges, the puffy red skin around the punctures that he’d widened with his canines. 

“It’s not okay… I… At a certain point, it wasn’t even about that. At a certain point I just- I couldn’t stop… You were dead, and you weren’t coming back to me, and I just… Wanted you so much…” England sighed. “I’m sorry… I felt like I was France… Just, fucking with a corpse… What’s wrong with me, Spain? Fuck… I- I’m so sorry I didn’t stop...” England completely let his weight rest on top of Spain. He didn’t want to talk about it right then, but it was coming out of him regardless. He couldn’t continue without apologizing, despite the terrible timing.

Spain smiled softly, fingers running through England's hair until he cupped his face and made him look at him, made him meet his gaze. 

"It's okay… and nothing is wrong with you, England, you're fine…" Spain muttered, "if you feel that bad about it, want closure other than being told it's fine; then I forgive you." He craned his neck to kiss him gently, closing his eyes and melting into it. "But please don't compare yourself to  _ him,  _ you're so different, in such a good way… what he did was, and still is, despicable, a selfish desire. But you? You're so much more than that." 

England sighed. “I wanted you back. For me. It was the definition of selfish. But still… Thank you… I… I… I’m sorry. Really. I am,” England breathed out deeply. It felt good to say it. Like he was getting forgiveness for a multitude of sins beyond just biting his neck too hard. It felt good. 

Spain smiled kindly, "I know…" he kissed him again, stroking his cheek with his thumb and wrapping his legs around England's waist. "And I'm back now; you couldn't get rid of me even if you tried." 

England smiled. “You’re right. I couldn’t even if I tried. Come here,” and he swept up to take his lips again, so grateful that Spain would still have him. Would still entertain him and all his flaws. He got back into the flow of it, running his hands over Spain, finishing opening his shirt, getting his thumbs into the waistline of his pants and shoving them below his hipbones. His hips were already moving, and once Spain’s pants were low enough he shucked his own as well and started rubbing their hips together, grabbing both their dicks together in his fist. “Spain you feel so good, I want you, I want you so bad…” 

Spain moaned at the sensation around his dick, feeling the heat of England's cock against his own, the warmth of his hand. He shivered and moaned at England's words. 

"Please…" he panted, "I'm yours…" 

England nodded, biting his lip and humming happily, working his hips up and down, sliding against Spain’s dick. Without letting go he flung his left hand out blindly to the side, searching for the green tin with the grease, finding it, and dipping in to take a dollop. He brought it between them, switching hands so they could thrust more easily, wet slick heat instead of chafing. Their dicks rubbed until they were hot, could start a fire between them, and England was panting and sweating and had to lean back to strip out of his shirt before leaning back in and going back to humping.

His left hand still had grease on it and he worked it between Spain’s spread legs, finding his hole and sliding it in smoothly. He pushed in and out, in and out. Bending his index to find that sweet spot and press decisively against it. He stopped kissing Spain in order to pull back and ask, “How does that feel, love? You like that?” England paused, wary of ambiguity after last time, “You like my finger inside you?” He asked more quietly. 

Spain wailed as England worked against his prostate, moving his hips into the sensation.

"Y-- Yes…!" Spain whimpered. 

“You like it when I- when I fuck you?” England breathed stuttering from the rhythm of his hips, still grinding them together as he dipped his finger in. He still felt a thrill of something admitting that even this was fucking, that even this was a form of connection. 

Spain craned his neck, moaning lowly in his throat and closing his eyes, "fuck… yes!" He moved his hips, rolling into England's hand and body heat, skin slick with sweat. 

“I’m gonna give you more now, okay?” England panted, pressing a second finger into him, flexing them and stretching him. He sat up to get a better angle, still jerking them off together in one tight grip, his left hand able to sink into him more deeply, all the way to the top knuckle. Spain looked amazing, half-dressed with his clothes haphazardly torn off, his body arching and sweating against his, the way his eyes were glazed with pleasure, with safety, with trust. The shifts and changes between them had happened gradually and suddenly England couldn’t imagine hurting him like he had before, he’d never be able to be as vicious as he’d been before. At least, not with Spain. 

It was an excessively aggressive posture he didn’t mind leaving behind. Why use force when it could feel so much better like this? 

“How do you feel? Do you want more? Do you want my cock?” England asked, slowing his hand to a long lazy pull. 

Spain groaned at the sudden, slowed down sensation on his cock, clenching around England's fingers and nodding. With gasping pants, he grasped the bedsheets above his head, chest heaving and body coiled tight. "Please…" he moaned softly, "please, please, please… I want it." 

All that was on his mind at that moment was a need for pleasure, a need for them both to feel good. He wanted it more than anything.

"Please…" he said again.

England grinned, hearing the lust in his voice, the way he begged for more, begged for him. 

“Alright, here I go then,” England released him, dick flopping hard up against his own belly as England shifted Spain’s legs against his shoulder, held his dick in position right up against his slick hole. He didn’t hesitate once he got there, bending Spain over himself as he leaned over him and let his body weight drill into him in a fast, wet rush. But the instant he broke through, England knew something was wrong. 

Spain let out a cry as England pushed into him, body going taut and muscles tensing, his eyes opened wide and his lips parted before he grit his teeth and his eyes scrunched shut, his whole expression twisting and tears spilled over his cheeks and disappeared into his hairline. He screamed as he gripped the bedsheets tighter, panting desperately to draw in a substantial breath but unable to do anything more than shallow, fast breaths. 

He felt like the knife was back and it was impossible to stop it. 

He rode through the first wave of pain, only for another shock to rip its way through him, fresh tears clinging to his sweaty skin. 

He opened his eyes, just enough to peek through at England. 

_ No. _

It wasn't the knife…

He was okay, 

It wasn't the knife…

"A-- Arthur…!" He ground out on a shallow breath, low in his throat, unable to stop himself in his cry for help. 

“Spain! Wh-what’s wrong? Are you okay?!” England pulled back, pulled out, and looked down to see his dick streaked with blood, despite the preparation, despite the grease, he’d still hurt him.  _ Again _ . After he’d just told himself he never would do that to Spain again… Here he was, bloody cock, Spain’s suppressed whimpers and cries in his ears, Spain curled up on himself and trembling…

England was shocked, confused, but more than anything he felt terrible black guilt clouding through him, obscuring everything. He let Spain’s leg’s down, watched in horror as he curled up on his side, unable to do anything, unable to stop him from being in pain. 

“I- I’m sorry! I thought, I thought you were ready… Oh, fuck… What have I done? Spain! Are you okay? Stay with me!” England said desperately, leaning over him to get closer to his face, seeing how his eyes were pinpricks of pain, his face pale from the shock. He still wasn’t sure what happened but he knew incomprehensible pain when he saw it. 

Spain could barely hear England over the rush of blood in his ears, all he could focus on was the raw pain, but as he rolled onto his side, gripped the bedsheets almost hard enough to rip them all he could see was England's expression as he'd panicked. 

He panted, gasping and groaning softly, he felt as if he'd been torn open all over again, but the hurt expression on England's face made him want to cry even more. He didn't want this. 

England was panicking. What had started out so good, so dreamy, had turned into a nightmare. He wanted to hold him but didn’t know if he should, kept asking what was wrong, what happened? But Spain still couldn’t speak. With fast breaths, angry tears in his eyes aimed at himself, frustrated by the lack of understanding. He took a moment to wipe the blood from his dick, smeared it on a handkerchief, and tucked himself back into his pants. He wasn’t hard anymore, had lost his erection the moment Spain’s cries hit his ears. He turned back to Spain still balled up shivering on the bed and carefully laid on his side behind him, stroking his arm. 

“Hey, hey, you’re okay… Do- Do you want me to hold you? What can I do? Please, Spain, I want to help…” England said desperately, wanting nothing more than to hug him from behind and hold him until the pain faded. 

Spain finally focused on England's voice, gasping softly and whimpering as he acknowledged the question, taking his time to answer.

"I-- I need you…" was all he could choke out, his hand reaching in England's direction. England’s hand rose to meet him halfway. 

“I’ve got you, I’m right here, no one’s gonna hurt you…” England said, gripping his hand and scooting in closer, wrapping his arm around Spain and holding him tight against his chest, aligning his body against every inch of him. Anywhere they could possibly touch, England pressed in to make it happen. He wanted Spain to feel nothing but him, no pain, no bad memories, just the touch of someone he trusted. 

Between the blood, the instant extreme pain, the fact that Spain wasn’t even able to speak, still stuck in whatever had caused it, England had a guess. The last thing that had been up Spain’s ass, besides a finger or two, had been Lucille’s knife. England shuddered. He was such an idiot. Of course, that was going to leave scars. Scars that didn’t have the same stretch and elasticity. He’d just unintentionally fucked all his wounds open again. 

“Fuck. Spain. I’m so sorry… I didn’t think… I- Fuck…..” England trailed off, feeling terrible. How could he fix this? How could Spain heal in such a way that this wouldn’t haunt him the rest of his life? England didn’t know. It was just too much, even after France and Lucille were gone their influence lingered. “Next time I see that bitch… I’m gonna fuck her up…” England growled, holding Spain tighter. 

Spain had started to sob now, burying his head into England's chest and crying. With a shaky sniffling breath he gasped quietly, trying to catch his breath but ending up hiccuping as he wiped at his face and settled back in against England. 

“I know it hurt, I know… I’m sorry… It’ll get better, I’ll take care of you…” England tried to comfort Spain, trying not to think about how it must feel, how he’d caused him such pain again. He soothed his hands over his head, rubbed his back, and just let him cry. Feeling a growing rage, toward Lucille, a matching swelling sympathy and compassion toward Spain. “It’s okay, it’s okay… Just let it out, I’ve got you… I’m gonna ram my sword right through her next time, that fucking cunt… Jesus bloody christ, how could I have been so dumb… Spain, I’ve got you, it’s not your fault, it was all me… I’m sorry…” England didn’t know where to focus, how to help, vacillating between his emotions wildly, but still holding and stroking and soothing Spain the entire time. 

"It hurts…" Spain groaned, gripping onto England and hitting his forehead lightly against England's chest. Tears making England's shirt wet. "Fuck…" 

England’s heart throbbed painfully hearing the anguish in his voice, the way he cried and clung to him. It took a lot to get to Spain in this way, he knew, and seeing him so helpless to the pain made England want to do something,  _ anything _ to help him. He grabbed Spain’s fists and slowly pulled them from his clothes, sitting up as he did it. 

“Hey there, hey, listen, it’s gonna be okay. I’m going to get you some medicine, I’ll be right back, I promise,” England croaked out, realizing just how close to tears he was as well. He stood up to head to his desk and retrieve the morphine. 

Spain whimpered, voice trembling, "n-- no…" 

“Yes, you actually need it. I won’t give you too much, I promise I know what I’m doing,” England retrieved the syringe, cringing that it still hadn’t been cleaned. Still had traces of both his and Mateo’s blood streaked on it - the very cause of Lucille’s nationhood. England shook his head, no time to think of that. He ran to the basin and thoroughly but quickly rinsed the syringe clean, pulling out a fresh needle and screwing it into the syringe, drawing an appropriate dose into the vial. He came back over with a rope, ready to tie Spain’s arm off and get a vein. 

“Here, let me see your arm, love,” England reached for him. 

Spain swatted his hand away, "I-- I said no…" 

He tried to move, tried to back away, but he was struck by more pain, more agony. He somehow managed to climb onto his front and drag himself away using his arms, not daring to move his legs.

“Spain! Please, you have to trust me! This will actually help, please let me help you!” England said desperately, climbing onto the bed after Spain, grabbing him by the shoulder to stop him from moving further away. It would be easier to just pin him down and force the medicine on him, he wouldn’t be able to stop him, but England desperately didn’t want to do that. It would be a last resort. 

How could he get Spain to trust him? Show another side of himself. 

“Listen Spain, I know you saw me before and I can admit it, I have been known to abuse this stuff from time to time, but that doesn’t make it a bad thing when used appropriately when you actually need it. And trust me, Spain, you need it. I - I know how bad it is. I don’t want you to suffer through it unnecessarily, not when I have a way to help you right here…” England’s hand on his shoulder let go in order to pet him instead of grabbing him.

Spain reached the headboard. Bearing with the pain to turn onto his back, propping himself up against the headboard and grimacing. "No." He was breathing heavily, and he reached behind the bed for the knife he knew was stashed there. 

“Spain! Stop it! Why are you being like this? I just want to help!” England watched, growing more frustrated as Spain grabbed his knife. He still didn’t trust him? After everything they just did? Though he did just tear his ass a new one… England shook his head, knew he couldn’t blame Spain for this. “Please, please trust me,” England set the syringe aside at the foot of the bed out of reach, turning and holding his arms open, palms up. He’d let Spain stab him if he needed that. 

Spain didn't hold the knife at arm’s length, didn't throw it at England or lunge for him. Instead, he held it to his own throat. 

"I'm not taking it." 

England’s eyes widened, he sat perfectly still. 

“But… But why? Spain?” England couldn’t understand it, why he was so resistant to it. 

Tears rolled down Spain's face, "I don't want to…" 

“You need it,” England said quietly, not arguing, just stating a fact. He softened his face, reached his empty hand out. “Come on, give me the knife. I promise, it doesn’t hurt if that’s what you’re worried about - I always hit the vein the first time,” England said with a weak smile, trying to use humor to defuse Spain’s suicidal threat. 

Spain didn't hand over the knife, didn't lower it from his throat. 

"I'm not taking it." His voice was trembling.

England’s ability to be patient in the face of irrationality was at its end. His smile dropped. 

“Yes, you are. Spain, please, don’t force my hand,” England said, his voice still quiet but his legs were tensed to jump, his eyes judging the distance between them and how likely he’d be able to get his hand between the blade and his neck, how fast he’d have to be to snag his wrist. It depended on Spain, how fast he could commit to ending his own life. Not every country was as reckless as he was and had the ability to off themselves so casually. England was betting on Spain hesitating, not pressing deep enough, life-preserving instincts kicking in. 

The more pessimistic side of him also knew he could more easily administer morphine if Spain bled out, maybe a mercy to heal from death first and wake up with drugs already in his system. 

Either way, England was gonna give him his medicine, whether he wanted it or not. 

Spain shook his head, sniffling. "Please don't…" his hands were trembling, his whole body shaking, the knife perilously close to his skin.

“I’m sorry,” England said and then he lunged forward, hand snapping ahead and outstretching, reaching for Spain’s wrist. 

Spain was shaking uncontrollably, his skin deathly cold as England grabbed his wrist. He fought against England's grip, tugging against him. 

"Please… England…" Spain begged. "Please… just let me deal with this…" 

England wrenched his hand holding the knife away from his throat, pinning him back by his shoulder with his other arm braced straight. He squeezed his wrist hard, twisting against the joint until Spain’s hand opened up and the knife fell to the bed. England kicked it away where it fell to the floor.

“You have to take your medicine, don’t be difficult, you’re old enough to know better,” England chided, reaching behind him to grab the syringe from the foot of the bed. He had Spain by one arm, held the syringe between his teeth to free up his other hand for the rope, winding it around his bicep until it was tight. 

Spain continued to struggle, trying to kick at England but found it caused an impossible amount of pain from doing so. He cried out. He was desperate. He clawed at England's arm until it caused bleeding, he felt trapped, looking into England's eyes and as a last resort saying, "I'll never trust you again if you do this…" but it was followed by a hiccupping sob. 

England grimaced, heart rending. Both from the imminent loss of trust, the way Spain twisted in pain and fear beneath his grip. 

“That’s your choice. I know what’s right,” England breathed through his grief and hardened his heart, ignored the way Spain fought, leaning against him with his body to keep him still, one arm stretched out, the other drawing the needle to the throbbing vein in the crook of his elbow and pierced it in shallowly, depressing the plunger. 

He watched the clear morphine enter Spain’s body and finally let out a breath. It was hard, but he knew it would be worth it. Once Spain could feel the difference. 

Spain screamed, breathing hard and fast as he watched with wide eyes, gaze flitting between England and the syringe. His expression twisted and fresh tears started to fall from his eyes. 

England pulled the needle out and tossed it away, loosening the rope, making soft shushing sounds, letting go of Spain’s arm so he could stroke up along it, thumbs brushing his tears away from his eyes. From where he’d been pinning him down he shifted so he was more holding him instead. 

“It’s okay, love, you’ll feel better soon, no more pain, no more fighting, I’ll take care of you,” England cooed, turning gentle again. 

Spain tried to scowl, but his eyes were red and puffy and sore, they felt like sandpaper and his body shook with another sob as he grabbed onto England's arms tighter, fingertips and nails digging into the skin and leaving crescent moon indentations. 

He tried to fight England, tried to overpower him and escape, nurse his wounds alone, tried to overcome the sweeping exhaustion that rolled over him in waves. He didn't know if it was from the morphine or if it was just him overthinking what was to come. But he felt his tears lessening, sobs still racking his body but his tears all dried up. 

Rocking him gently, England brought him in closer and pressed small kisses to his head. 

“That’s right, you’re okay, that’s right…” England just repeated it over and over, let the rocking match the soft mantra. He knew it would work fast and Spain should be feeling it, should already be drifting. 

Soon, Spain's sobs turned to whimpers, shivers running through his body at random intervals. The pain was numbing down, exactly as England had said, but the betrayal hurt more than any wound could. How could he…? How could he go against him? 

With a shaky breath, a tremor, he closed his eyes and then forced them open again, eyes wide.

England saw him, stroked his hair, and ducked closer to whisper.

"You can sleep now if you want, I'll watch over you," England offered. 

"No…" Spain said quietly. 

England nodded and rested his head against Spain's. 

"That's alright too, I'll stay with you," he sighed, glad the hard part was over. But already he was thinking, how to help him heal his insides together in such a way that his scars could stretch. England cringed imagining it. It wouldn't be a pleasant process if they did it how he imagined. Something stretching him at the same time he healed… He'd bring it up later… It was too soon.

Spain tried again to scowl, but he felt the unfamiliar,  _ scary _ , sensation of the morphine. Pain relief this powerful had always made him fearful, he liked to be in charge, aware,  _ hyper _ aware. And he couldn't if his sense of pain was numbed. With pursed lips, he desperately tried to remain lucid. Forced slumber only added to his fear, what would he miss? What would happen to him? What if… what if something bad happened? He gnawed on his lip until it began to bleed, unable to feel the pain that told him  _ enough was enough.  _

England saw the blood in his mouth, frowned at that, and tilted Spain up by the chin to look more closely. 

"Hey, be careful, don't hurt yourself more…" England said with concern, brushing his thumb across Spain’s fat lower lip. 

Spain looked at him, exhaustion etched on every feature, "can I be alone for a few minutes?" 

England was surprised at that, he thought Spain would want him there, would want someone to hold him and help him and not judge him. But, after a moment, England sighed and nodded. He supposed if his ass was ripped and falling out he’d want some privacy too. He gave Spain another tousle, and sat up off the bed. He glanced around, brought the water pitcher to the bedside, grabbed the morphine and syringe and stashed them away, drew the curtains so it was darker in the cabin. 

“Is there anything else you need before I go?” England asked, feeling conflicted and strange leaving Spain there in such a state. 

Spain shook his head, "I'm fine… thank you." 

England hesitated by the door, looking back at Spain curled on the bed and he wanted to apologize again, but knowing it would just lead to a painful discussion he just said instead, “I’ll come to check on you later,” and walked out, softly closing the door behind him. Once out on the open deck, bright morning light and pleasant winds tugging at him, England took a huge breath and let it out in a whooshing rush. He hadn’t expected their morning to be so eventful. So many strange turns, he wondered if they would ever even out. 

He strode around the deck, actually grateful for the time away from Spain. Despite his growing feelings toward the Spaniard he had to be careful to not be seen hanging off him so much in front of his men. Had to maintain an image after all. He spent some time checking in with them individually, looking over the work that had been done and still needed doing. Reestablishing his role and his supremacy as an attentive captain. 

The last thing to check was the helm. His new navigator. He’d saved Mateo for last simply because he worried what he might do when he heard about Spain. England still wasn’t sure he could put it into words, it was still just so sickening that Spain had been knife-fucked in the first place, and then he goes and fucks his barely formed scars right open. Again. 

He felt bad enough about it without Mateo’s overprotective glares. Still. He had a duty to fulfill. He’d try to spare him the gory details, maybe avoid talking about him altogether if he could help it… 

As he came up the stairs he saw Mateo at the wheel, eyes fixed steadily on the distant horizon. 

“Hey, Andorra! How’s it going?  **That means what’s up,”** England explained as he came closer. 

Mateo's gaze fixed on England for a few seconds before focusing on the horizon again. 

**"The sails are up,"** he said unironically.  **"Where's Spain?"** He asked, already aware of their budding alliance and surprised to see them away from each other.  **"Did you two argue again?"** He stared at England.

England tried to laugh it off. Fuck, he was astute. That or just a one-track mind. 

“Oh, he, uh, wasn’t feeling well so -  **he’s just sleeping** …” England trailed off feeling awkward. He both wanted Mateo to be fluent and he also didn’t want to explain. Talking in half sentences seemed to work for now. 

Mateo kept his eyes on England, trying to formulate a response in English but still having limited knowledge, so he copied England. 

"Wasn't… feeling well.  **Is he okay?"** Mateo quirked a brow, clearly confused and curious. 

“Yeah, yeah, he’ll be fine. Eventually…  **I gave him some medicine and he just wanted some space,** so here I am,” England spread his hands as if to say ta-da, but with none of the enthusiasm. 

Mateo looked at him,  **"medicine? But he doesn't…"** he furrowed his brow.  **"He doesn't take medicine."**

England snapped his head over to stare at Mateo. He’d just stepped in it. 

“What? What do you mean?” England asked, feeling more nervous by the second. 

Mateo paused, wondering whether to tell Spain's feelings about medicine or whether to let England find out himself…

Even though he hadn't spoken in Spanish, Mateo heard the question in his tone, he heard the repeated  _ what?  _ and knew roughly what he wanted. 

"He…" Mateo pinched the bridge of his nose and scrunched his eyes shut, trying to think. "Bad times." He looked at England again, trying to explain in English was pointless,  **"he doesn't like taking medicine because he feels… powerless? He's a… he likes being in control of himself and a situation, without it he just shuts down. The medicine dulls his senses and he starts to panic. The medicine causes him more stress than without. He feels vulnerable, he'd rather grin and bear with it. And he's had bad experiences."**

England wondered if he should have taken the knife, the other weapons hidden in the room, worried for Spain but at the same time even more confused. He wanted to run back down and check on him, but he needed to know more, wanted to understand, and have something constructive to say other than, are you okay?

“Can you tell me?  **Tell me?** ” England asked, looking right at him. And after a second, glancing around the deck, he added, “ **Tell me in Spanish.** ” 

After a moment, he nodded. 

" **There's one I know of. But two things happened and he hasn't touched medicine since…"** Mateo explained.  **"He'd just been in a fight, the ship doctor gave him medicine so he could operate - this was before we knew his identity as a nation. But the doctor had… ulterior motives. And he gave him too much medicine."** Mateo took a breath, remembering what had happened as if it was yesterday. " **He died. The doctor took control of the ship and I guess I just… stayed with him until he revived. That was when he made me his first mate and it was also the only time I've ever seen him kill a crew member. Of course, he felt it. And never killed anyone on his vessel again. But I remember, he had a reaction to the medicine. His skin went itchy and these lines formed along his veins. Like when you tourniquet a part of the body and the veins bulge. Like that."**

England felt his heart racing, chest tightening. 

“ **Was it morphine?** ” 

Mateo hummed.  **"Yeah."**

“Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck!” England turned on his heel and immediately headed back down to the captain’s quarter. Why hadn’t he said anything? Being so resistant without explaining anything… 

But then again, he’d been so resistant to a simple kiss without being able to say why. Maybe it was something similar for him, a memory so painful he couldn’t even touch upon it by mentioning it. He would try to give Spain the same grace he’d shown him. 

He opened the door without a knock and strode into the room looking for Spain. 

Mateo watched how fast England left the helm, he gave chase, following the captain back down to his quarters and entering the room with England. 

Spain was lying on the bed, deathly still, curled in on himself and facing away from the door. 

Mateo looked at England,  **"what did you do?"** He asked, although his tone indicated that he already knew. 

England didn't respond, just dashed to his bedside and touched Spain's shoulder gently.

"Hey, Spain, can you hear me?"

Spain groaned softly, a slight snore, and swatted half-heartedly at England as if he were a fly buzzing around his ear. But he didn't wake up. 

His arm he used had red bruising along his veins, but he quickly tucked it back into his chest before England could properly look at it. 

Mateo stepped into the room and followed England to the bed,  **"lucky you, you used the right dose."**

England stood by the bedside, trembling with anger, with guilt, with fear, he wasn’t sure what. 

“ **Of course I used the proper dose. I wasn’t trying to hurt him… He never said anything about having a bad reaction. I…** Fuck **. I forced him to take it anyway…”** England wanted to reach for his arm again, wanted to pull the covers back and properly look at him, but after forcing him in the first place it didn’t feel right. He’d lost his place to do it. 

Mateo felt almost sorry for England, choosing to rest his hand on his shoulder.  **"He'll be fine,"** he knelt down,  **"last time the reaction only messed with his arm for about fifteen minutes while it got into his blood. It just made him really itchy."**

“Why didn’t you say anything? Dumb bastard… Making me feel like a villain,” England muttered looking at Spain’s pinched face. He glanced back at Mateo, noticing the hand on his shoulder, wasn’t sure he liked how chummy everything was between nations but decided not to say anything. He needed Mateo on his side so he could use him to get back on Spain’s good side. “ **What should I do? Just wait it out? The last thing he told me was he wanted to be alone.** ” 

**"He probably doesn't want you to see him so helpless. He's stubborn that way."**

“I’ve seen him plenty helpless…” England muttered to himself remembering how this whole thing started. Spain, despite going along with the alliance, and even taking control at certain points, it still didn’t change the fact that he was helpless under their arrangement. England held all the power. He couldn’t even stop him from forcing medicine on him. How was that any different than seeing him weak and unconscious? Still, England could give him privacy at least. 

**“Stay with him. Even if he doesn’t want me around I don’t want him alone. I’ll take over the helm, come get me when he wakes,** ” England ordered. He started to walk toward the door but stopped, turning to go back to his desk and grab a book from his secretary. He walked back over and handed it to Mateo. “ **Here, you can look at this while you wait. It’s** **_Don Quixote_ ** **. In English of course. Maybe you’ll pick something up from it...** ” 

Mateo nodded, looking at the book, fingers tracing the spine. "Thank you." He said in English. He knew at least that much. 

England smiled and turned to leave, grateful for some time on deck. Let the sun and the sea breeze clear his head. 

\----

Mateo tossed the book aside after what felt like hours, just when he thought he was starting to pick up the English language, he'd learn another sentence that would completely confuse him again. He sighed, looking at Spain and seeing green eyes looking back at him. He startled. 

**"Cap'n… how do you feel?"**

Spain took a moment to answer, compose his thoughts and make sense of them.  **"Like a royal galleon was dropped on me."**

Mateo smiled sympathetically.  **"This will make you laugh. I scared England."**

Spain's lips quirked up.  **"Good. The bastard. What did you do?"** He itched his arm absentmindedly. 

**"Made him think you were going to die."**

Spain laughed,  **"and you say you're a good man."**

Mateo itched the side of his nose and smirked.  **"I'll go get him."** He said, standing and making his way to the door. 

**"Should I play dead?"**

**"If you want."** Mateo chuckled, leaving the room. 

Mateo walked over to the helm, up the stairs, and towards England, thumbing behind him. 

**"He's awake."**

England took a deep breath and steadied himself. Was about to head down but decided he needed to know more first, wanted to approach Spain correctly. 

“ **How is he?** ” England paused by the rail, looking to Mateo. 

**"Surprisingly high spirits,"** Mateo said. 

“Oh! Well, good!” England said, surprised at the news. Apparently, he was right to force it on him, he knew it would help. He strode down the steps and entered the captain’s quarters, looking toward the bed. 

“Spain, love, how are you feeling?” England stopped when he saw he was still lying down and hurried over. He laid there, eyes closed, chest still, and suddenly England felt terrible vertigo hit him. Spain  _ wasn’t  _ okay. He began to shake him by the arms, not too hard, just trying to rattle him back awake. 

“Hey- hey! Spain, come on, come back to me, please please wake up!” 

Spain started snickering, which quickly turned into a guffaw. He cracked open one eye and looked at England. 

"Good day, cariño~" 

England stopped and dropped him, backing up from the bed with a scowl. 

“You asshole… I actually thought…” England frowned and crossed his arms and turned on the spot, sinking down to the floor next to the bed, leaning against it. He didn’t want to leave but he didn’t want to give Spain the satisfaction of laughing at his surprised face. “I was worried… Andorra told me… Told me you had bad experiences with it… I thought, fuck, I’m an idiot. I thought you were actually in trouble…” England trailed off glumly. This wasn’t how he imagined their reunion. 

Spain's hand found England's head, removed his hat, and ruffled his hair before laughing breathily. "Yeah, I've had bad experiences and I  _ hate  _ taking medicine… but I'm also incredibly grateful for what you did… even if you went against my demands not to." Spain's tone turned serious. "I never want to be in that situation again." 

“Which? Being fucked with a knife? Having your scars fucked open? Or being forced to take morphine until you cry?” England asked sourly. He wasn’t gonna let him off that easily. Not after being scared like that. 

"All of the above," Spain replied matter-of-factly. He sat up, grimacing at the slight pain that found its way through the morphine that was now beginning to ease off. He leaned over and kissed England on the head. "I'm sorry for scaring you." But he was smiling. 

England was grateful for the affection, grateful he was up and back to normal it seemed. But he still couldn’t move on so quickly, even if he wanted to. 

“You can’t do that to me. You can’t just freak out and not explain. If I’d known… I would have… I don’t know, I would have done it differently,” England buried his head against his knees, tightening up around himself. 

Spain nodded, not that he could see it. "I'm sorry… surely you know what it's like. Fight or flight. Logic and rationality don’t matter in that moment… I didn't even think." He kissed his head again. "I'm sorry…" 

England sighed and straightened up again, tilting up so Spain could kiss his forehead. 

“It’s okay. I do get it. I know I’ve had more than my fair share of freakouts. And you helped me through all of them. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you through this better… I don’t have much practice if I’m being frank,” England said with another sigh, leaning heavily against the bed. 

Spain hummed. "You did what you could in the most England way possible, I'd probably be worried if you did it any differently. Now come up here." He patted the bed. 

England crawled up and happily snuggled up close to Spain, glad to be accepted back into his embrace. He smiled as he leaned against him but a lingering icy thought remained. 

“Do… do you still trust me?” England asked quietly, holding his breath afterward.

Spain was perplexed for a moment, mind still slightly hazy before he remembered what he'd said. But… things hadn't gone the way he'd thought they would, things were okay between them. Granted England had gone against him. But it worked out for the better, and it was to help him. 

He supposed… if he didn't do it again… "I… do. I do." He said more firmly. "But only if you  _ never  _ force something onto me, even if it's for my own good because I might be stubborn, but  _ talking  _ to me helps. Talk things through with me and more often than not I'll listen." 

“You definitely weren’t listening then. But, sure. I’ll try harder to get through to you next time. Maybe I’ll tie you down first, lecture for an hour, then stick you. Sound good?” England said, half-joking, half-serious. He continued. “I really didn’t know what to do, I thought I gave you so many chances, tried to explain and be gentle. But in the end, I still ended up forcing you. I don’t want to do that again… I don’t want to be that person.” 

He turned to look at Spain, made sure their eyes met. 

Spain smiled, nodding, "I know… I just… I don't know… talking helps calm me down. I need to convince myself that things are okay…" 

England listened and waited, processing it. “Well, maybe you do need someone on top of you. If you’re so scared you can’t hear me, next time I’m just gonna pin you down and hold you until you can.” England decided then and there. It wasn’t a decision Spain was a part of, he was just going to do it that way if something like this happened again. He sighed, feeling better somewhat. 

“Are… are you okay to talk about it?” 

"My fear? Or what happened to give me the fear?" 

“Both I guess…” 

Spain took a breath and nodded. "It was about three years ago when the incident happened." 

England wrapped an arm around his shoulder and held him close, the other hand finding his and holding it. “Tell me, I want to know you better.” 

"Uh, well, it actually started in 1740… you might remember, we were on opposite sides even then." Spain fiddled with the bedsheets, looking down. "War of the Austrian Succession, I allied myself with France and Prussia against Austria. As our governments did. Austria and I haven't seen eye to eye since, and a few years ago we ran into each other in the Mediterranean, the usual happened where we fought, but this time he came out on top. He left me with fatal wounds and, in hindsight, I was incredibly stupid to pretend to be a human, to hide my identity from my crew. The doctor on my ship used morphine and a concoction of other drugs to sedate me, but he was… I didn't trust him. He had the look of greed in his eye. He wasn't satisfied being beneath me and he used too much; killed me. Took over my ship, and killed anyone who opposed." 

Spain fidgetted, resting his head in his hands, "Mateo was put in charge of guarding my body, was there when I revived, he filled me in and I killed my doctor. Brutally killed him with Alfanje through his eye… then I threw him to his watery grave. But of course, I felt  _ everything,  _ his death, the death of those he killed, and I swore never to kill another crew member…" 

England squeezed his hand, knowing how it felt when your own countrymen betrayed you. You had to get your hands dirty. 

“No wonder you flipped out when you saw the needle… That must have been horrible to wake up from. These humans have no idea… Have to keep them on a tight leash or they end up doing depraved things like that. Thank you for telling me… I understand a bit better now,” England admitted, turning to kiss Spain’s cheek. 

“Are you feeling any better now? Still healing down there?” 

Spain shrugged, "I can't feel anything… I can only assume so…" 

“I, uh, while you were out I was thinking. About how to help your body heal properly. Um, well, you’re not gonna like it…” England trailed off. It was hard to say, let alone agree to. But, it would just get worse, it would happen again, if not with him then someone else in the future. He had to help him, at least try. 

Spain looked at him, "what won't I like?" 

“Well, the reason you tore open was because of the scar tissue. So... So that means… You need to form new scars… while it’s still stretched out…. Otherwise… Well, you know what happens when it heals too tight. Knits together and then it rips. Sorry…” England said, cringing that it might be too graphic. Just imagining what Spain felt made England feel a bit queasy. 

"So… you want me to have something up my ass while it heals?" Spain asked.

England shrugged a single shoulder. 

“Essentially, yeah. I took this spoke off the wheel. It’s smooth and varnished and I already cleaned it… It would, um, it could work… If you want to try that… I altered it to make it work better,” England said, pulling the wooden dowel from his jacket. It was six inches long with both a tapered and more bulbous end, a blond oak grain smoothed and sanded and shellacked until it shined. Where it had been pulled out of the wheel, the tapered end had instead been screwed into a larger disc of wood, essentially creating a flared base to stop it from going too far. England handed it to Spain so he could look at it. 

Spain swallowed thickly, holding the spoke and feeling its weight and girth in his hand. "Do I have to?" He asked, but then he thought how  _ not _ doing it would impact him. Everything from sex to taking a shit would tear him open again, or be painful at the very least.

"Alright. But only until it heals." 

“Of course, love. I know this sucks… I’m sorry we have to do this at all, I’m still gonna make her pay when I see her next…” England growled, pulling Spain in tighter, possessively. Then he rubbed down his arm. “We uh, because we heal so fast, we better, um, you know… While you still have the morphine…” England motioned his index finger going through the circle formed by his thumb and pointer finger on his other hand. 

Spain nodded, "okay…" he handed the spoke to England.

“Alright, here, let me help you roll over, already got the grease. I’m uh, I’m gonna start with my fingers first, okay?” England breathed, heart pounding faster. He was terribly nervous and blanched when he saw Spain’s ass. He looked away, clenching his eyes closed, grateful he’d forced the morphine on him. He slowly and gently probed the bloody hole, slipping a single finger inside, focused purely on preparing his body and not titillation. “How does that feel?” England asked.

At that moment Spain was also grateful he'd forced the morphine on him, even if it was starting to wear off. Gritting his teeth at the slight discomfort of the intrusion. "I can feel it… but it's not too bad with the morphine…" 

“Alright, I’m putting another one in. You tell me if it’s too much.” England pressed it in. 

Spain groaned in discomfort this time, head hitting the bed below him as England pushed inside. "Fuck… I can definitely feel that." 

“It’s ok, we’ll wait, just breathe and relax… Tell me when it’s faded.” England said patiently. “We’re in no rush, just relax…” 

Spain nodded, taking deep, steadying breaths. He kept his face hidden, more to mask his emotions from England rather than anything else. "Ready." He gritted out, when really he had tears in his eyes, wetting the bedsheets under his face.

“Breathe for me love, you can do this,” England encouraged as he pressed a third finger inside. It was tight, but still injured, he knew this was the worst part. He had to bear with it, heal around the girth or he’d never be able to accommodate it later. “All that’s left is the spoke, tell me when, take a moment, we’re almost there love…” 

"Just do it," Spain hissed, gripping the bedsheets and biting his lip, "it's better to get it over with…" 

He suppressed a sniffle, suppressed a wail, closing his eyes and taking a shaky breath. 

England winced and moved the spoke in place, pulling his fingers out as he pressed the smooth wood in. He saw Spain’s flesh stretch and fresh blood bead around the rim, biting his lip and looking away. “I’m so sorry Spain, please forgive me…” 

It felt as if the morphine had stopped working at that moment, Spain barely stopping a scream from escaping his lips, instead, he scrunched his eyes shut, breathing labored and stuttering in his throat. 

"Forget… you getting revenge…" He hissed. "I'll kill her…!" 

England nodded heartily, smiling grimly at Spain. "That's right, you will. You're tough, this won't stop you," England declared, rubbing his back as he slowly settled the spoke into place. 

Spain finally caved, lifting his head only to retch, a dry heave ripping through his body from the pain, if he'd had more in his stomach he had no doubt he would've vomited. But instead, he was left shivering, body aching as he heaved again, balked, and coughed. Sweat beaded on his face, tears rolling down his red-flushed cheeks. Fuck. Fuck.  _ Fuck.  _

England just kept rubbing his back, kept softly saying encouragements, promises of bloody revenge, assurances he was going to make it, that this wouldn’t last forever. 

“The hardest part is over, just have to wait and heal and you’ll be right as rain,” England promised, hoping it was true. “Do you… Do you want some more morphine? Not a full dose, just a little to take the edge off. I won’t force you,” England assured him. 

Spain shook his head, "I-- I'm fine…" he exhaled, lips trembling and teeth chattering. "I-- I'm sorry… if it weren't for me Lucille would be dead and Mateo would be the only Andorra…  _ why  _ did I help her?" Spain shuddered out, a fresh bout of tears making their way down his cheeks. "I'm so… fucking stupid."

“You’re not stupid… Even if I call you that sometimes. You’ve just got a tender heart is all. It’s why you actually are able to make friends with people, it’s an enviable trait,” England said with a wry smile. “Though yeah, in this case, it would have been better to let her die from her wounds. We’ll get her next time, you’ll see!” 

Spain smiled, but it lacked its usual warmth. "We don't know how to kill a nation, she does." 

“We’ll just ask politely. I’m sure she’ll tell us.” 

"Or she'll kill us on the spot." Spain sighed, trying to move but jostling the spoke and wincing. "Surely it's easy enough… you were able to keep me dead." 

“Keeping you dead and leaving you dead are two different things. I’m sure you being staked with a sword wouldn’t trigger another nation to be created, but France and the bitch figured out a way to do it. What did she say before? Light a fire for Andorra? You ever been burnt to death, Spain?” 

Spain hummed, "no, I haven't. Came close one time but it worked itself out." 

“It always does. Hmm. I wonder if that’s how? Leave nothing left to regenerate, just ash. We’ll test it out on her if she doesn’t tell us.” 

"That could actually work…" Spain muttered, attempting to move again and getting further this time. Managing to roll onto his side.

England watched him carefully. “How’s it feeling?”

"Full." Spain smirked before turning a little bit more serious, "I think it's working." 

“Good. Do you… Do you need anything? I could hold you if that would feel better, or some food maybe?” 

"Thank you, but I think if I ate right now I'd probably not be able to keep it down… although being held sounds nice." Spain smiled. England returned the smile and shifted onto his side as well, scooting up to nuzzle Spain and hold him in his arms. They stayed like that for a while, England stroking him idly, but mostly just lying still next to one another. It felt nice having the moment of peace after all the strife, a quiet moment to rest. Eventually, they dozed off, still holding each other. 

It was getting into the late afternoon when England woke up again, stretched, and sat up to look at Spain who was already awake, glancing up at him.

“Hey, uh, I know you’re comfortable and all but I think we should check the um, well, we should check on you,” England trailed off. “It’s been a while so, we gotta move it around a bit.” 

Spain made a face of displeasure at the thought. "Alright…" he was actually surprised, after taking a nap his ass didn't hurt as much as it did before, and that was without the morphine. He'd somehow managed to trick himself into feeling no pain at all. 

With a shaky breath, he rolled onto his front with a lot more ease than earlier, burying his face in a pillow. 

England smeared some grease onto his finger and spread his cheeks, pulling gently on the base of the spoke. He rubbed the dollop of grease around the spoke, over the rim of his hole, noting that he’d stopped bleeding finally. He pulled it out a bit further, so the bulge stretched against him, moving achingly slow, pausing every millimeter. 

“You look better back here, though we should leave it in until you’re fully healed. It took, what, a day last time?” 

"Yeah… about a day…" Spain grimaced, a small panting breath escaping his lips. He took a shaky breath and looked over his shoulder at England, watching him. 

England caught his eye, leaned forward to peck his shoulder.

"You're doing great, almost done, good boy, good boy…" England encouraged, twisting the spoke, dragging it out to its largest width before pressing it back in. Satisfied that he could handle that without tearing he finally let off and smoothed his palm over Spain's ass, his lower back, long wide circling strokes that reassured him the worst was past. "Alright, you're done, for now, love. It seems to be working."

"Thank fuck…" Spain cursed, rolling onto his side again and smiling at England, "thank you…" he beamed. 

"You're more than welcome." England eyed him curiously, gaze flickering down to his limp cock. Hand smoothed over his hip, his flank. "I could uh, give you some service in the front… if you would like that," England offered.

Spain flushed, "I-- I mean if you want to? You don't have to…" 

His hand slid up to Spain's shoulder and he rolled him back against the pillows, shifting on top of him so they were flush. He pressed his lips against Spain, kissing him briefly before nosing down his throat, licking the hollow at the center, thumbs rubbing over his brown nipples. He slithered lower, still on top of Spain but now he was framed by his thighs, the heel of his palm dragging heavily against the heated swell of Spain's half-hard cock. He grinned up at him. 

"Someone's enjoying the attention…"

"Of course I am…" Spain blushed, hiding his eyes with the heel of his palms, flushed down to his nipples. He gasped softly, reaching for England and closing his eyes. 

England hummed happily feeling his fingers sink into his hair. "That's right, just let me take care of you, let me take care of everything," he fisted Spain's dick fully, moving up and down, ducking his head to flick his tongue along the very tip, lapping up the slight salt of his skin, the tang of precum. Spain swelled to full size in his grip and England moaned when he felt it, his girth pulsing between his fingers. 

"I'm gonna suck you off now," England murmured, Spain's dick reflected in his gleaming eyes.

Spain was moaning, panting softly already at the attention his cock was receiving. He groaned when he saw England's hungry gaze. 

"You're going to be the death of me…" he gasped out. 

"Then let's make it a pleasurable one," and England sucked the glans into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the tip, pulling hard so his cheeks were hollowed in. His hands clutched around the shaft and he began rubbing them up and down, stroking the loose skin, gripping the hot core. He moaned as he went, not even an act, just desperate for his dick, desperate to please him. 

Spain cried out in pleasure, throwing his head back against the pillows and thrusting his hips into the warmth of England's mouth, he breathed deeply, skin stretched over his ribs as he arched into the touch. 

"Fuck…!" He cursed, moving his hips slower, the first time had hurt a little, and he tugged England's hair needily. 

England heard Spain's desire and responded to it, feeling himself swell untouched but he ignored that. Everything at this moment was about Spain. England slid his mouth further down his shaft, relaxing his throat and moaning around the pressure of the cockhead squeezing down the back. He held his breath as he deepthroated him, lips folded over teeth, tongue applying pressure to the underside, his head bobbing up and down so Spain didn't have to move at all, just his neck growing warm from the work, his mouth drooling from his enthusiasm. 

Spain writhed beneath him, moaning helplessly against the pleasure and feeling himself already growing close to his release, he was embarrassed that he was coming apart so fast. With panting gasps he pulled England's hair, carding his fingers through sandy locks and wrapping his fingers in his hair. 

England heard his gasp, felt him twisting, normally he would have let off and teased him more, dragged it out longer, but he felt Spain had been tormented enough that day so he redoubled his speed instead, snatching quick quarter-breaths with each dip, one hand braced to stabilize him as his head bobbed rapidly, his other moving up to roll Spain’s balls in his palm, stroke lightly at the sensitive skin there. If his mouth had been free England would have been encouraging him to cum, to let it all go, but he didn’t want to stop his blowjob for even a moment. 

Spain came undone with a cry of England's name on his lips, shaking and trembling under his touch. England's name became a chant, repetitive and lustful. 

England gulped down his release, licking up the underside as the last spurts of it landed on his lips and he finally pulled back with a sigh. “That’s right, say my name… Who made you feel like this? It was me…” England panted, his eyes a dark green, a thumb going to his mouth to smear away the drop of cum there. 

"Fuuuck…" Spain hissed, panting. He watched England closely, watched him swallow him down and then swipe at some cum on his lip with his thumb, it nearly had him ready to go again… "let me return the favor… please…" he gasped. 

England hesitated, though his dick throbbed at the invitation he wasn’t sure Spain should move around that much. “You sure? It won’t uh, jostle it back there? You don’t have to, I can take care of it myself,” England said, uncertain.

"I want to…" Spain said, still slightly breathless. "You can do whatever you want to me to get off… use my hands, my mouth, my thighs… anything…" 

England surveyed him as if he were the topography of a new land. His dips and curves, peaks and valleys, all of him laid out for consumption. He landed on his eyes, the green with flecks of gold embedded in them, the wild brown curls framing his face. England crawled over him, straddling his chest and resting lightly there. His dick, thick and wet, landed heavily between his pecs and England leaned over to squeeze them together from the side, creating a dip of shallow cleavage there, his dick laid right into it like a cable along a trench. 

“Hold yourself like this, love. I’m gonna titty-fuck you and give you a nice pearl necklace…” England panted, already starting to swivel his hips. 

Spain did as he was told, blushing furiously when England began to move his hips, he hummed, groaning softly. 

"Fuck…" 

“Yes, I am…” between the sweat, the lingering traces of grease, the warm embrace of Spain’s muscles, his face opening up for him, eyes reflecting him, England felt the pleasure rise inside him, dick growing harder if possible. He had one hand braced over his dick, pressing it down into the cleavage as his hips worked back and forth. His other was angled up by Spain’s head, holding him up, leaning him forward so he was close to his face, could watch every nuance, every minute shift. After a moment he sat still on Spain and jerked himself instead, it wouldn’t be long now, he was already close, already worked up from sucking Spain. 

“F-uuuck, Spain, are you ready? You gonna take my load?” England asked breathless, hips twitching, hand blurring, smearing, and sliding wet between his pecs.

Spain nodded, "please…" he begged softly, parting his lips and his tongue lolling out. "Please…" 

England shouted as he came, arching up off Spain as a thick white rope shot out, landed on Spain’s face, a long white streak from his eyebrow, across his nose, dripping down his lips and chin. England kept going, another shorter string pulled from him, hitting Spain’s neck - just as he’d promised - and the final weak pulse that just dribbled over his chest and sternum. England panted from the release, sitting back heavily on Spain, admiring his handiwork. 

Half of it was an undeniable pleasure, the other half was the satisfaction of staking a claim, of marking Spain with his scent, with his essence. He wanted to rub his seed into his skin, make him absorb it, bear the stench of it all day. His thumb idly began to trace circles through the stuff, spreading it onto him like lotion. 

“You look so good coated in my cum, Spain…” 

Spain moaned softly, his voice cracking mid-moan. He closed his eyes and let England do what he pleased, not adverse to the sensation, feeling claimed and wrecked and used. He felt content. 

England slid down his body, lowering himself as he went until they were laid stacked on top of each other. His release still smeared between them, spreading it further. England nuzzled up to his face and began kissing him lightly, tasting himself on Spain's lips, moaning into his mouth, all wet and musky and satisfied. 

Spain gasped softly, feeling their bodies flush together, he kissed England back with a sated lust, fingertips brushing through his hair and he deepened the kiss. 

"Thank you…" Spain said softly. 

England smiled. "You're welcome, love. I'm glad you're okay." He sighed and just wanted to stay there, wanted to snuggle Spain for hours. But he'd already been missing for most of the day and knew he needed to head out and see his men again. It was getting close to evening and they still hadn't found any ships. England knew he had to feed the men something or else it would breed another mutiny. Luckily Lucille hadn't thrown out any of his personal stash and knew he could distribute those rations to buy them more time. 

"Spain, I hate to say it but I have to go. My men are hungry and if I don't give them something to chew on they will be at our throats again," England gave a last small peck and sat up stretching.

Spain hummed, feeling cold without him. "Do what you have to, I'll… wait for you." Spain smiled sleepily, watching him closely. 

England stroked his head one last time and then stood and went to the cabinet, opening it and gathering the cured meat, the dried fruits, and salted fish. There were even some crackers in a tin he’d been saving. He dumped it all in a sack, leaving a portion for himself and Spain, and hefted it up to step outside. 

Men were already gathered near his door and they all grinned like jackals when he came out, a few snickering in the back. England had a feeling he knew what it was about and grinned in return. 

“Nice performance Captain, we could hear the bitch screaming from out here,”

England was glad Spain was still inside in bed. He’d just have to get over being known as a bitch, there was no way he could take it back in front of his men now. He had to stifle his grimace thinking of the reason for those screams, they hadn’t all been based in pleasure. 

“Yes, well, he does have a lovely voice, doesn’t he?” 

The men all chuckled and then eyed the bag as England thrust it forward holding it out. 

“Alright boys, it’s your lucky day, you get to have a taste of the captain’s personal stock. Split it amongst yourselves and keep the rum flowing, but don’t you dare stop looking for a ship. We’re sure to come by one sooner or later.”

“Captain, did you make the bitch cry?” A small weasley man asked, still more interested in being a vicarious voyeur than the food.

England looked at him, annoyed. “Yeah, I definitely made him cry. My dick was too big.” 

They all laughed again, distributing the food around, their mood uplifted by the rations and the sexual tall tales. England smiled and laughed along with them but felt cold inside. It wasn’t funny at all when it happened. And it had been his fault… He nodded at his men and backed out of the circle, heading up to the helm with a few crackers, a handful of raisins, and a smoked fish. He needed to be around someone who wouldn’t automatically belittle Spain. 

“Hey, Andorra. How’s it going? I brought you some food,” he held up the offering as he came closer.

Mateo remained quiet, eyeing him distastefully before fixing his gaze back on the horizon. 

He'd heard everything, and he didn't appreciate it, didn't have time for it, he shook his head. 

**"So this is what he meant."**

“What’s that? Here, do you want it or not?  **It’s literally the only food left so take it before someone else does.”**

Mateo eyed the food,  **"not hungry."** He said, more out of principle than anything else. 

England narrowed his eyes. 

“What is it?  **Spit it out already.** ”

Mateo felt annoyance at that, at his expression, at his words, at the fact he didn't seem to see  _ anything  _ wrong with what he said. 

He stepped away from the wheel, grabbed England by his collar, and pushing him back against the rail, further still, so he was bent over the rail at almost 90°. 

**"You're a sick bastard."**

Raisins and crackers spilled to the deck as England grappled with the one-armed man. He’d been caught off guard and Andorra’s remaining limb was still impressively buff and he was easily bent over the rail behind him, his hat nearly falling off but clinging on just barely. He snarled and lifted both legs, kicking out and shoving him back. England hit the deck roughly and quickly scrambled back up to his feet, fists raised. 

“The fuck is wrong with you!” England yelled, temper flaring. His men below heard the commotion and a group of them headed up to the helm, stomping up with guns and swords out. England held out a hand toward them. “Just wait, we need him. Someone go get a set of irons,” he ordered, glaring at Andorra.

Mateo glared back,  **"bastard."** He repeated, looking to the other men on the deck and pausing in his attack.  **"You're a fucking bastard. Talking about him that way."**

England took the cuffs that someone had run and grabbed, stepping closer to Mateo. He leaned forward to whisper in his ear, not wanting his men to hear him speak Spanish. 

“ **Believe it or not, I’m protecting him. Just like how I’m protecting you right now.** ” He snapped the cuff on his one wrist and tugged him to the wheel, snapping the other cuff onto there imprisoning him at his station. Then he turned to his men. 

“Everyone ignore him. Go back to your stations and get back to work. We’re still hunting!” 

They didn’t cheer this time, mumbled and muttered to each other but shuffled obediently off regardless. They’d expected England to draw some blood at least. He sighed as he watched them all descend and turned to Mateo. 

“ **Listen, I only call him that to keep anyone else from trying something with him. I don’t really mean it,** ” he explained, wondering how upset Mateo would be with him once he learned about their mishap in the bedroom. 

Mateo scowled, tugging against the wheel and finding it was stuck fast. 

**"It's still disgusting."** Mateo argued, and without thinking, he said,  **"he** **_likes_ ** **you and you call him a bitch--"** Mateo cut himself off suddenly.  **"Shit."**

England laughed at that. Mocking him even as the word planted a nervous seed, one that was already growing. 

“ **Likes me? He likes that I get him off, that I can protect him, that he’s in my bed right now instead of the brig. Listen, I know you’re new at this, but us nations we don’t need to do that useless human shit. It’s either help each other out or fuck each other over. Me and Spain have a nice thing right now, don’t ruin it by putting labels like that on it,** ” England said in a rush, not liking how something different was germinating inside him at the thought. 

Mateo frowned, scowling at England before deciding he wasn't finished. 

**"He didn't deny it,"** Mateo said.  **"Not once did he even try to… You might not need to do it, but sometimes it's unavoidable."**

England didn’t know what to say to that so he didn’t say anything. Shooting him a final scowl before turning to leave. “ **Just keep us sailing. I’ll worry about Spain.** ” 

**"His name is Antonio, by the way, you should use it sometime."**

England stopped short, remembering how Spain had used his mortal name while they were together in bed. He hadn’t even known Spain’s human name before, he’d never needed to know and still wasn’t sure what to do with the new information. 

Antonio, huh? Antonio and Arthur. 

England quickly shook his head and stomped resolutely down the stairs. No way. No way was that ever going to happen, he just wanted to enjoy what they had, not ruin it by trying to be something they weren’t. Why couldn’t Spain get that? 

**"There's a ship,"** Mateo said, not bothering to raise his voice, just staring at England. 

England stopped halfway down the steps and turned to run back up. 

“Really? Where?” 

**"Hard starboard,"** Mateo said, starting to twist the wheel. 

“Guess I owe you a piece of gold. Let me see what we’re working with…” England pulled his telescope from the inner pocket of his jacket and extended it, peering into the distance at the speck of a ship on the horizon. Mateo had really good eyesight as well it seemed. When he saw it he grinned. It was about the same size as his ship, and they were already gaining on them. 

He darted to the rail and shouted at his men. 

“Hey! We got a live one! Douse the torches and fire, we can catch them in the dusk!” 

The men were all tipsy and motivated, bored from a long day of monotonous sailing, still hungry despite the small bit of food to hold them over. England knew they would be ferocious in taking this poor unaware ship. He turned back and grinned at Mateo. He too was excited at the prospect of a fight. 

“Do you think they saw us? We got the setting sun behind us, we’re in their blind spot, couldn’t ask for a better target! Oh, fuck. You have  _ got _ to learn English.  **Sun’s at our back, do you think they can see us?** ”

**"Silhouette,"** Mateo said simply,  **"depends on their navigator. Keen eye."**

**“Get us closer but try not to give us away. We’ll strike once it’s dark.** ” 

England was in high spirits and strode briskly back down the stairs into the captain quarters. He turned with a triumphant smile, already reveling in his catch before they’d even gotten close. 

“Spain! Guess what! We found another ship! That means fresh supplies and even more loot. Good timing, right?” 

Spain grumbled softly, rubbing at his eyes and looking up at England, "you're back." He smiled tiredly. 

England swooped in for a long deep kiss, pinning Spain back to the bed. He couldn’t get enough of them now it seemed. “How do you feel? Think you can stand? I want you to watch me ruin someone’s day,” England said mischievously. 

"I can try," Spain smiled into the kiss, returning it wholeheartedly. 

“Where’s that hunk of bed you whacked off to help Mateo walk?” England paused, feeling conspicuous, weird, “I-I mean Andorra… Fuck. You’re rubbing off on me. Gross.” England smiled and shoved Spain in order to push himself up. He was being playful, in a rough bullying sort of way. “I bet it’s down in the brig, I’ll go get it, wait here,” England said with a smirk before darting out again.

Spain smiled, watching him go with a wide grin. "Alright, hurry back~!" 

England dashed down, found the discarded makeshift crutch, and ran back up, breathless and excited he burst back in. Coming right over to the bed and pushing the staff into Spain's hands. He was excited as a child Christmas morning.

"Come on love! I want to show you! Oh, and while we're out there when I call you bitch please know what I really mean is  _ darling _ . Come on! I don't want to miss anything!" England tugged at Spain, bloodthirsty and doting and cruel and impatient all at once. 

Spain's smile faded, "right… Uhm, I need clothes." He stood, balancing against the bedpost and the makeshift crutch, pushing off and hobbling over to the basin and cleaning himself up, wiping down his face and chest, looking down to make sure he didn't miss anything. He quickly threw his clothes back on. "Ready." 

England took his hand and helped him hobble outside, still aware he was healing, that there was a chunk of wood stuck up his ass. 

"Let's go," England said with a manic smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dilation time! Anyone else ever had to do that? Oof, not fun. Poor Spain.


	12. Bloom Like Algae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old alliances meet new ones.

Lucille stalked across the vast gardens of the chateau. She'd never been to this one in particular before, but they were all the same to her. Big gardens, huge house, ladies swooning over France. It was all the same. 

She drew a sword she'd taken from the armory, sliding it from its sheath and dragging the tip of the blade along the stony floor before swinging wildly at a shrub, the top half toppling and flowers scattering around her form on the breeze. 

She'd kill him.

She'd kill that Spain for shooting her, for everything. Then she'd mount him on her sword and make England watch as she tore him open all over again. 

France's words stuck in her head, after her recovery she'd sworn revenge. But France had to give her another lecture, another harsh reminder.  _ Who can a queen rule if she kills her subjects?  _

With a glare she twisted on her heel, swinging downward against another shrub, splitting it down the middle, bark splitting and peeling as if it had been struck by lightning. She shucked her shoulders and rolled her neck, stomping over to a wooden pavillion and up the steps. Under the shelter she looked out across the gardens, all since emptied or ladies of the court, all fleeing in her presence. She turned her nose up at the fact nothing had changed. Bringing the sword horizontally against a wooden support beam and getting it stuck. With a grunt she pulled, pulled some more, finally dislodging it with a snarl as she looked out to the sea. 

Château de la mer. 

“Lucille, mon  chérie , please you’re costing me money. Can you please stop destroying the landscaping?” France said smoothly, walking across the pavilion, beneath the wisteria-lined pergola, wine glass in hand. 

Lucille sneered at him, "it's either this or you." 

“How about an actual duel? Or would you prefer a debate? Lucille, I must say your approach didn’t exactly leave us in a good position last time. You need to learn restraint, but I’ve already told you this haven’t I?” France strode closer, right into her space. Unarmed but unafraid. He knew if she cut him down there were more than enough armed experienced soldiers to subdue her. She’d already learned to regret hurting him before. Being immortal just made the punishment all the harsher. 

She glared at him, sternly. If looks could kill he'd already be dead. 

"I don't want your lectures!" She fumed, standing close to him, chest to chest and nose to nose, meeting his gaze. 

“Then  _ do better _ . I know I trained you to think ahead. Don’t let blind vengeance take control. Having a more powerful position is better than just stabbing him with a knife. Once you have political power, military power, a rapport with your people, then you have something to work with. Just intimidating the representative isn’t enough. Though, it certainly helps…” France smirked, tilting her chin up and gazing deep into her angry fiery eyes. 

“Are you angry? Do you want to fuck me? Would that help you feel better?” France asked smoothly, all smiles and wine-scented breath. 

"Is that what you want?" Lucille asked, tone sultry.

France smiled. He’d trained her well. She knew how he liked it, she knew what to do. 

“Come, let’s go to my private chambers…” France said, matching her tone. 

"I asked if that was what you wanted." She crossed her arms over her chest. 

He laughed lightly, stroking her chin. “Yes, of course, my little flower, I want you - all of you.” 

"Then no." 

“No? Then you would rather be alone? Completely ostracised by everyone? I believe that’s why you came to me in the first palace. I’ve treated you well, I’ve trained you up… You’re going your own way now? Or is this just a rebellious phase?” France asked, bemused. His charges often lashed out, tried to defy him, especially when flushed with new immortal power. “Should I treat you like I did England?” France smirked. 

"You can try." She glared. "I won't let you." 

France laughed again, stepping forward, crowding her back. 

“That’s the thing, Lucille. It doesn’t matter if you let me, that’s entirely the point. If you won’t continue with our lovely pattern, one I thought we both enjoyed, then you’re just removing your choice in the matter,” France murmured, setting the wine glass down on a ledge around the pergola. “But it’s still going to happen, in some form or another… I’m not picky.” 

Lucille stood on his foot, stomping down hard on his shoe and digging her heel in. And then she pulled his hair, holding the tip of the sword to his throat, blade in the scant distance between them. "Try me." She snarled. 

France snarled from the kick, from the blade against him, but he also knew how to summon more strength, he was in his homeland, surrounded by his people. It was easy enough to make himself ten times stronger and shove her back, sweeping her feet out from under her. Rarely did he use his supernatural powers on humans, but she wasn’t a young orphan girl anymore. She was a nation, and he was going to treat her as such. 

He stepped over and grabbed her by the collar, picking her up with one arm and shoving her against the column, picking up his wine glass still sitting there and nonchalantly polishing it off before setting it back down again. 

“Is this what you had in mind? Me strong-arming you like this?” France ducked in to claim her lips in a kiss, still shoved against the pole, dangling in the air. 

She struggled against him, writhing under his grasp. She gripped his arm that was holding her in place and raised her legs to kick him, planting both feet firmly into his gut. Bringing her feet back again she aimed lower still, heels digging into his crotch.

France jerked his hips in, avoiding the worst of the blow but still sinking to his knees in pain regardless. He kept ahold of her wrist, stopping her from slashing him, and even from his position on the ground he was able to pull her down as well, still leaning into his strength as a nation to overpower her. He twisted her arm, forcing her to drop the sword. 

“Fine, we’ll do this the hard way,” France ground out. 

Lucille pulled against him, struggling against his grasp even though it was futile. She reached for the sword, but it was too far away, her fingertips only serving to push it further from her grasp. 

She looked up at France, panting as she used the hand he wasn't grabbing to snap up and hit his chest, blindly flailing. 

“Yes, struggle, fight me, do your best to stop me… I want you to know it, just what your level is… I’ll still take everything,” France said, breathing heavily himself, snagging her other wrist, and twisting down so she was splayed on the ground, him over her. “It’s so cliche, but it still works…” France said more to himself than any appreciative audience as he pulled her bodice open. 

Lucille was torn between fighting and refusing to give him the satisfaction. She wasn't going to lie down and take anything from him. She continued to kick her legs, her back arching as she struggled to break her arms free. 

“That won’t work. Lucille, surely you knew… I’ve only let you lead because it amused me. If you’re seriously standing against me…” France slotted himself between her legs. “Should I torch your villages to drain your strength? Start an embargo to starve your people and starve you? Invade? Pillage? Destroy? Let me assure you, though you lived through an invasion as a human it’s a completely different situation as a nation. You’ll feel it. You’ll dream about their deaths, you’ll know their names. You’re not just an unattached little girl anymore. You’re the nation of Andorra, under my rule, and that means something, right here and now. Give me what I want, or else I’m taking it,” France snarled, fullying pinning her down and dominating her. Breasts out, dick hard against her ripped pants, he’d managed to get ahold of her long hair and wrench her head back as well. If they weren’t wearing clothes he would already be inside her. 

Lucille grit her teeth, eyes closing in response to him holding her hair. 

"Stop…" She finally said, submitting to him. "Don't…" 

“Then submit… You’re my territory now… It’s either this… Or I’ll kill you and do it anyway…” France growled, thrusting against her, shoving her down. 

Lucille didn't fight, even though she wanted to, she nodded against his grip on her hair. "I'll submit… I'm sorry…" her eyes opened just a little to look up at him. 

France held back, eased up, smoothed a thumb over the edge of her hairline. “I know, it’s okay, I was expecting this. Every new nation wants to test out their powers… But I can make you feel as good as before, submitting to me isn’t giving up, it’s just giving yourself a leg up in the world. I will lift you up, Andorra, I’ll support you and your people. You just have to know… who owns you at the end of the day...Say my name Andorra. Who owns you?”

Lucille exhaled shakily, a small tremble working through her body. "You, you own me, France." She used his country's name instead of his human one, hoping to appease him further. 

“Yes, that’s right… France owns Andorra. Which means you don’t need to fight me, it’s already been decided… Now, do you still want to top me? Or shall I take care of you? There’s no wrong answer, I am happy to play either role as long as you understand what’s going on at the end of the day,” France sighed, still working his body against hers. 

Lucille looked away, "remind me of my place…" 

"As you wish, my little flower," France said, ripping her shirt the rest of the way open, shoving her pants down, all the way, so they hung off one ankle, her pants, her pantaloons, her panties and stockings, all of it, and without any other warning or soft stroke, without warming her up or even a word of comfort, he shoved his length inside with an appeased groan. 

This was how he treated nations, not little girls. Andorra must certainly feel the difference. 

Lucille's face twisted, mouth opening as if to scream, or cry out, but she stopped herself, she refused to let him have that at least. Instead, she snarled, meeting his gaze with her own fiery eyes, begging didn't suit her… She looked for anything she could use to get the upper hand. 

She saw his pistol at his waist if only she could get to it… 

She knew his threat would likely be carried out regardless. That he'd probably kill her after this and fuck her corpse. He was just that sort of man.  _ Monster.  _

France sighed over her, his breath stirring the loose ends of her hair, bottoming out and making room for himself inside her. He started rocking up into her, a firm steady rhythm meant for both pleasure and pressure. He released her hands seeing her give in to him, grabbing her hips instead. 

Lucille moaned, wrapping her right leg around his waist and her left leg opening further to make room for his body, she gripped his jacket lapels, her hands working down the jacket opening to his hips, fingers roving over the butt of the pistol before she locked it in her grasp, pulling it from his belt and sneaking it behind her back. Ready to bide her time. 

France noticed but didn't do anything about it, he was too busy handling her full breasts, squeezing and sucking on them while his dick still rode hard and fast into her, wet and hot from friction. He began laying kisses along her chest, her shoulder, stretching her armpit so he could keep kissing down the length of it. Without lifting his head he murmured against her tan skin. 

"What do you think you're doing with that, my flower?"

Her heart suddenly hammered in her chest and she looked up at him with wide eyes, letting go of the pistol and dropping it. 

"I--" 

“That’s what I thought. Good girl, now give me a kiss. Like you mean it,” France ordered, leaning in closer so he was all she could see, all she could feel. 

She closed her eyes and the distance between them. Kissing him, starting softly and working her way up to open-mouthed kisses, plump, full lips working against his, fingers wrapping into his hair. 

France was satisfied, kept going, redoubling the pace of his hips to make up for the softness of her lips and as he forced his tongue into her mouth his pace became jerky, his breath coming faster, and he spurt his seed deep into her. 

“There you go, mon chérie, you are always so sweet to take, especially out in the open like this. No wonder you have a reputation,” France kissed her lips gently, her chin, along her jaw as he softened and slipped out.

Lucille felt all the tension and rage snap, grabbing the pistol under her back and pressing the tip of the barrel against his forehead. 

"I could say the same about you." And she pulled the trigger.

France narrowed his eyes as the gun clicked - empty. 

“Oh, darling, did you really think that would work? I hate to break something so beautiful but it’s the only way you’ll learn,” France sighed, still pinning her against the column and he shoved a knife between her ribs, beneath her breast, angled up to pierce her heart. “I’ll see you when you wake up again, mi amor…” France cradled her as she died in seconds, kissing her sweaty forehead, wiping the brief tears from the corner of her eyes. 

The next thing Lucille was aware of was a stinging in her chest, every heartbeat hurt, a dragging and heavy sensation making it hard to breathe. The sensation of fine silks beneath her, and then the sound of skin on skin, next was the smell of sweat and something carnal, the taste of dried and congealing blood in her mouth… finally, the sensation of something - someone - between her legs, inside her body. She groaned, opening her eyes and seeing France. 

He was sweating, dripping over her, thrusting into her, holding her legs up, and smearing his lower belly with her fluids, his dick was busy buried deep in her ass. He smiled at her narrowly, not slowing his pace as he noticed her revival. 

"Ah, good morning Lucille, did you have a nice dirt nap? Shall we try again or do I need to put you under? Ahh, your ass got so tight when you came back just now," France groaned, slowing for a beat to stop himself from spilling. 

She wanted to fight. Wanted to fight more than anything. But her body was still stuck fast. Her heart hurt, her chest ached, she didn't have any strength to do anything, so she lay still, glaring at him through glassy eyes. 

France met her glare with a smirk, knowing exactly what she wanted to do. 

"That's the right choice, just lie still and let me finish, ah Lucille, I'm so glad you became a nation… You have no idea, a beauty like you? Already in my pocket, ah, take it all, here it comes, ah!" France plugged himself deep and shot his load up her ass. He slumped forward, lying on top of her, still inside her even as his dick went limp, his sweaty body wetting her dry skin. Corpses didn't perspire, no matter how hard he fucked them. He stayed still, catching his breath, smelling her hair, fingers moving randomly over her limbs as he came down from his high. He turned to whisper in her ear, "Have you finally calmed down? Do you remember your place now?"

"Unfortunately…" she hissed. But the fight had left her. There was nothing she could do in the situation. 

"Don't sulk, I'll let you have my ass next time. Would you like that? Would that make you feel more powerful again?"

Lucille stayed silent. 

France sighed. "You and England both, just shutting down when you don't get your way. So childish," France sniffed pulling out and rolling over. "I'd prefer not to train you so harshly as I did with him, but I don't mind a short leash if that's what it takes."

"I'm not a dog." Lucille argued, "don't talk like I am one. I don't need to be  _ trained. _ "

"Ah, see Lucille, that's where you're wrong. You've already  _ been  _ trained. And now that you're a nation I'm going to make you even more useful to me. It's up to you if it's the stick or the carrot, though I know which I would prefer…" France plucked a stray curl and twirled it around his finger. 

"I already hate being a nation." She crossed her arms over her chest. "I'll kill myself. Throw myself into a fire until there's nothing left of me." 

"If you do that, I'll pull your smoldering corpse from the pyre and watch over you as you heal slowly and painfully. It won't work my sweet. And I don't recommend it either, burns are especially painful to heal, though you already know that. Don't you?" France's hand moved down her thigh, skating along the scars there. "Besides, what about your people? You want them to follow that oaf? Don't forget your ambition. Your goal."

Lucille looked down, she could remember a lot of things, things that had scared her. But since becoming a nation… France's behavior was what scared her the most… what they had, it'd changed  _ again  _ and it scared her. 

"My ambition… that's the reason they'd be better off with him." 

"Don't say that… He's less than useless. He won't even return to Andorra. How can a coward like that lead his people? No, you and I together will drive Spain out and reclaim your land for full French rule. Rebuild your cities, reinvigorate your economy, rescue your people. You'll see, this is for the best."

Lucille didn't believe a word he said, she just hummed in response.

She decided there and then when the moment arose, they wouldn't be on the same side. 

\----

Spain stood beside England, looking out over the sea at the vessel they were targeting. It felt familiar. With its three high masts, tall, wide aft, and glorious white sails, there was a flag above the sails, proudly flying the colors of black and yellow horizontal color-blocks. 

Spain's heart sank and his stomach knotted up.

"We can't attack that ship…" 

England whipped his head around staring hard at Spain.

"My men are hungry and that's the first ship we've seen all day. Why wouldn't I take it?"

"Because…" Spain looked at him, "because… it's Austria… and there's never just  _ one  _ ship…" 

He looked back over at the ship, his hands gripping the rail with a white-knuckled grip. 

"Surely that prick isn't actually  _ on  _ that ship? He's so stuck up, I can't imagine him on the sea. You're not scared, are you?" England asked with a half-smile.

Spain ignored the question, refusing to admit that no, he wasn't scared; but, yes, he was worried. "I didn't think he'd be on the ship I attacked either." 

"Hmm. Well, thanks for the warning love, but your men also weren't much of a threat to my crew. I think I can handle it," England grinned mockingly.

Spain  _ really  _ wasn't in the mood. He turned away from England and walked up to the helm situating himself near Mateo. 

**"Why are you in irons?"**

**"Nearly pushed him overboard."**

Spain snorted a laugh,  **"you should've."**

**"I would've if his crew hadn't interrupted."**

Spain sat on the rail, wincing as it jostled the spoke inside him. 

**"Are you okay?"**

Spain nodded,  **"yeah, just sore."** He smiled, exhaling shakily. 

Mateo remembered what England had said, what his crew had said. And could only see that as the reason Spain was in pain. He scowled. 

**"I know I'm not the captain, but if this goes South I want you to steer us to safety."**

Mateo nodded,  **"I will. It's** **_his_ ** **ship, isn't it?"**

**"One of them."**

Mateo nodded again,  **"I'll keep us safe, Cap'n."**

Spain smiled, nodding and looking out to the ship steadily growing nearer.

England was busy directing his men to prepare the cannons, get their weapons ready, tie some ropes to the crossbeam to help with boarding once it came to that. They were gaining steadily and just as the final embers of the sun were extinguished below the horizon they were finally in range for their cannons. England felt the usual surge of adrenaline as he gave the order to fire and felt the tremor of the cannon, the belch of hot air and fire, the whistling of the ball through the sky. 

They missed the first shot but England had been carefully watching and knew how to fix the trajectory. He yelled back at Mateo without taking his eyes off the prize. “We’re off by about five degrees, starboard.” 

Mateo looked at Spain, and he translated for him. He promptly took action, steering to the starboard just enough to right the cannon fire. The pursued ship flashed and a second later they heard the boom of return fire. England watched as the cannonball ripped through his sail, leaving a round hole but missing their mast. As soon as they reloaded the cannon he gave the order to fire again, feeling excited about the pursuit, the fight, the risk of winning or losing it all. 

This time the aim was true and the shot hit the ship, crashing through the captain quarters on the backside. Not enough to stop it, but it would be enough to allow them to catch up and board. England gave a whoop of excitement when he saw the wood shatter and turned back to look at Spain and Mateo, make some sort of nasty comment about how their ship met a similar fate when suddenly there was another loud explosion from far off behind them. 

Spain's head snapped to look behind them, Mateo also doing the same. Two more ships of the line were closing in, still far away, but growing steadily closer and they turned to look back at England. 

"We need to stop, England." Spain said, "we need to get out of this situation. Mateo!" 

England was feeling particularly salty. Spain had been right. Not that he would admit to that or back down in the face of it, but dammit, he hated being proven wrong. 

“Don’t you dare change our course, we’ll take the bait ship and use that as cover. They wouldn’t want to shoot through their own ship, especially if we use the crew as hostages. Spain, translate! I don’t have time!” England darted forward and yelled at his men to shift the sails, unfurl everything, catch the wind to go just a smidge faster. England looked back at the pair of ships following, judging the distance. “I wonder if they’re using the same breeze we are… Fuck, where’re some oars when you need them! Just a tiny bit faster and we’d be good…” England mused aloud. 

"A Galleass has oars," Spain said, jumping off the railing to stomp to the top of the stairs, " _ my _ ship had oars, you fucking melon." He turned to Mateo who was snickering at the insult and translated what England had said. 

Mateo closed his eyes and concentrated. Without his arm being free he couldn't easily figure the wind direction, but he concentrated and figured out the direction of the wind by using other methods. 

It was in their favor. 

He shifted the wheel so the wind was blowing into the sails, it was slightly off target, the ship they were planning to use was now to the port side, but if he got enough speed behind them then it would be easy to round off and shelter behind the ship. 

England growled, not in the mood to be bested by Spain yet again. He was glad his men were too busy scurrying about to listen to his insults. 

“Don’t test me right now, Spain. I’d have no trouble putting you in your place  _ again _ ,” England hissed. They were gaining on the ship, but two more cannonballs were already flying at them. Thanks to Mateo shifting the ship they missed, flying only a few feet from where they had just been sailing. 

Spain sneered, "what are you gonna do? Stick some wood up my ass then parade me around on deck?" 

Mateo rolled his eyes at their bickering and continued to steer the ship. 

England whipped his head back to finally look at Spain. He would have laughed if he wasn’t so stressed. He couldn’t come up with a retort and instead gave him the evil eye before turning his attention back to his men. 

“Get those cannons ready again! Prep the side ones as well, we’re almost upon them!” They were close enough to the maimed ship that England could make out people on the deck, through his spyglass and he cursed his bad luck for a third time. Spain had been right yet again. Standing on the helm in a purple jacket was none other than Austria himself. 

England lowered his spyglass, gripping it hard, a whole new tension building inside him. It was one thing to be in a tight spot with mortals but turned into an entirely different game once another nation was involved. Though he was loathed to do so England had to tell Spain, they both had to be prepared. 

“Spain, come take a look,” England handed the extended spyglass over and he watched Spain’s reaction as he brought it up to peer through. “Looks like we have company.” 

Spain peered through the spyglass, feeling his blood run cold and a shiver vaulted up his spine. 

"He can't know I'm on this ship…" Spain groaned. "Especially in… this state." Spain shuddered. If Austria knew he had a spoke up his ass after being knife-raped by France's… pet. He'd never hear the end of it. 

Spain felt sick. Now he was no longer worried. He was  _ terrified.  _

England looked at Spain curiously, it seemed there's more to it than just an unwanted run-in. 

"What is it, Spain? Do you owe him money too?"

"More like…" he bit his lip. "He used to… have my hand… in an alliance, of sorts..." 

England felt an instant spike of green jealousy inside him, possessive, unreasonable. Suddenly he wanted to destroy his boat not just for the supplies within, but also to wipe the interloper completely off the sea.

"What? Since  _ when _ ? You, you just mean politically, right?"

"I… uh…" Spain fidgeted. "More than that."

England felt as if he had just been slapped. So in typical fashion, he decided to return the favor. He whipped his arm out and hit Spain right across the face. He glared at him with his chest heaving, more upset than he had any right to be.

"How dare you, fucking slut. Get back to the captain's quarters, I'll deal with you later. I gotta kill your old boyfriend now."

Spain held his face, feeling shocked and hurt. "Wh--" 

What had he done wrong? Told him the truth? 

He glared, deciding to  _ really  _ piss him off. 

"Yeah,  _ boyfriend,"  _ he hissed, "more like  _ husband.  _ For  _ two-hundred _ years." And he turned on his heel, heading to the captain's quarters. 

"Two hundred…? That bastard... Trying to make a fool of me... " England slumped, feeling more than just anger. It was more complex. But he had no time to process it, no time to listen to Spain's story. "Why aren't those cannons firing! We're close enough to get in some hits now move!" England yelled at his men.

Spain sat on the bed, grimacing as there was a slight pain from the spoke being pushed in further. He buried his head in his hands. 

Fuck… his face hurt…

Out on deck England was taking sadistic pleasure and shooting out Austria's cannons, while Mateo steered their ship closer and closer narrowly missing yet more cannon fire from behind them. England realized it was his skill that was the reason it took them so long to catch Spain's ship back in the first place. He'd make a decent first mate if only he could speak English and wasn't so blindly loyal to Spain.

England's men were chomping at the bit to board close enough now they could see the other sailors scrambling around. England tried to catch Austria's eye though he couldn't find him in the chaos. 

"Remember boys, we want hostages to fend off those other ships so don't kill every single one of them. "

Mateo finally steered England's vessel to the stern of the ship of the line, putting his whole body into turning port side and leaning heavily against the wheel. 

They fell into step beside the other ship, and Mateo used their remaining speed to line them up almost perfectly, a small bump against the side of their ship being the only indication they'd made contact at all. 

Men with ropes jumped across the scant gap between their ships, like intricate webbing they hauled the ship closer. Wooden boarding planks were next, England's men storming the ship with predatory prowess and engaging battle with anyone who opposed them. Strict orders not to kill were followed to the letter. England stomped across the boardwalk, sword raised and he found himself face to face with Austria. 

"You... " England hissed, sword already drawn and ready to impale the prick. Austria stood there looking haughty and annoyed more than anything else.

"Hello, England. Still playing at being a dirty little pirate I see. How's that working out for you?"

"Shut up Austria, this isn't a fucking game. Now come quietly or come with my sword through your chest."

"Certainly, save me the trouble of boarding you later when my other ships arrive. Excuse me," Austria pushed past England not even concerned about the sword, he knew he had the upper hand and England was still far outnumbered.

England turned and snarled after him, incensed by how little Austria was taking this seriously. It seemed more like a hindrance, a delay on his trade route, rather than his ship being taken hostage. He followed Austria back onto his ship and ran past him blocking his way to the captain's quarters where it seemed he had been heading.

"Don't you dare, this is my ship. You can't just go anywhere you please, " England yelled still holding his sword up to ward Austria back.

Austria smiled, gripping his sword between forefinger and thumb, moving it to the side, and continuing towards the captain's quarters. 

"Let's see how you're living on this… ship," he mocked and opened the door. 

“No! Get back here!" England went to slash at Austria, not caring about the consequences to him or his men who would get shot to pieces for the offense, but even that strike was too late. Austria knew he’d attack and opened the door to block to dodge behind it, blocking the sword. England didn't even try to fight to free the blade from where it was deeply wedged in the wood, he just let it go and went for his pistol instead. Spain was his damn it, and he was going to kill his so-called husband right in front of him.

Austria walked into the captain's quarters, eyes locking on Spain and widening just slightly. 

"Ah. Antonio. Who knew you'd be here." 

Spain shot up into a standing position, looking at England and then at Austria, eyes flitting between them like he'd been slapped again. Betrayed. 

England aimed his pistol directly at Austria's head "If you don't get the fuck out of here this instant you're dead."

"If you do that, then the lives of all your men are forfeit. Do you have to be so brutish, England? "

Spain looked between them some more, he had to nip this in the bud, "Stop it, both of you!" 

Austria sighed deeply looking at the state of Spain shaking his head.

"You need me to get you out of trouble yet again I see. Antonio you never listen, I told you going to sea would be dangerous. My house must seem quite warm now after you've experienced England's hospitality I'm sure. "

"You'd be wrong, I'm actually quite enjoying myself at sea, free from your stiff upper lip and lack of compassion." Spain smiled, but the expression held no warmth. 

"And still as ungrateful as ever. I wonder, have you grown up whatsoever because of your travels?"

"Jesus christ, Spain, you married this turd on purpose?!" England cut in, getting more upset at being ignored than what they were saying.

Spain looked down, already felt shame under unwanted scrutiny, he felt completely out of his depth dealing with both of them. England's anger and Austria's… well, Austria-ness. 

He didn't know what to say, what to do, he fiddled with his fingers. 

"You know, Roderich, I have. I have grown up." He stepped closer, "and I now know the colossal mistake I made marrying you in the first place." 

Austria arched a single silk eyebrow. England's jaw also dropped open in surprise - neither had been expecting that.

"I should've seen this coming…" Austria said, tone level and not giving away anything. "But you're not the only person who has a say in this…" 

"That's right! I have a say in it now too, because Spain is mine! " England yelled, making himself known once again. He couldn't stand being left out.

Spain gaped at England's possessiveness, jaw hanging loose as he looked at him. 

A strange part of him was pleased, but the other part of him just rationalized that England meant it as his  _ bitch,  _ probably just a show to his crew and Austria. And then a third part dawned on him two or three seconds too late. England was breaking his own conditions about keeping it secret…  _ why?  _

Austria frowned looking between them and hardening his stare at England. 

"If you think holding him prisoner and abusing him makes him yours, you are sorely mistaken England."

"No, I'm not, tell him Spain! "

"I… We entered an alliance, actually." 

“Yeah, an alliance that he wants to be in. You know what he did when he realized it was you? He went to hide from you in here! He doesn’t want to see you, he doesn’t want to be married to you, and he fucking hates your guts!” England shouted, getting closer to Austria. 

Spain bit his lip, knew that Austria's next move would likely be a biting comment directed at him rather than England. 

"England…" he hissed. 

"How amusing," Austria said, "you're in an alliance, but you don't call each other by your names?" 

“Because we’re not playing house like some stupid children, I’m not deluded enough to think we’re married or that this is a relationship between humans. You can keep playing pretend if you want, but leave Spain out of it!” 

“England, I believe you’re the one who’s pretending. And I’d rather hear it from Antonio,” Austria said cooly, turning his purple gaze on Spain and measuring him. Unlike England, he was always able to keep himself composed, his emotions in strict check, and he expected it of others as well. 

It was part of the reason being with him was so stifling 

Spain closed his eyes, exhaling. "I… I want this alliance. Sure, it started off rocky… really, really rocky, and it has a long way to go... But I haven't felt this alive in years, decades even." Spain spoke honestly. "It's far from perfect… but I'm happy…" he thought of something worth trying. "So, Roderich, we need provisions, France and his newest toy destroyed our food as well as a lot of other things… You have three ships and one of them will be almost impossible to rescue. Let us raid the food, that's all we'll take, and we'll be on our way. Your men will be safe, your treasure is safe, just… we need food." 

Roderich sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose right beneath his glasses frames. 

“It’s all already safe, I don’t need you to bargain on my behalf when I can protect what’s mine. I include you in that as well, so I’ll help you. On one condition,” Roderich laid out, calm as ever. 

Spain nodded, "okay, one condition." 

“I want a word with you, Antonio. Alone.” Roderich’s eyes slid over to England, gauging how he would respond. 

“Why the fuck would we agree to that? Clearly, you just want to steal him from me after I stole him from you fair and square. I didn’t even know you two were together! That’s how little he thinks of you!” England argued, still belligerent, still looking for a fight. 

Spain looked at England, "stop speaking for me." And he began to push England towards the door, whispering, "you can claim me later, when he's gone and when we have food." He shoved him past the threshold and shut the door behind him, giving him a  _ look.  _

Spain turned, looking at Austria, "what is it, Roderich?" 

“Is that all you can say to me? You’ve been gone for nearly 100 years… Then I find you on England’s ship? In an alliance with him? Looking like you’ve been dragged over the coals. Show me what he’s done to you.” 

"I… he hasn't…" Spain was suddenly floundering, unsure how to handle the situation. "Not in a while, anyway… since we've been in the alliance he hasn't hurt me." 

“Not in a while…? That’s not exactly reassuring. But if what you say is true then you won’t mind if I verify it. Please, let me see your body.” 

Spain's heart jolted in his chest, "I… don't think…" no, everything was riding on this going well. "Okay… but, we had a run-in with France and the French Andorra… any wounds are from them…" 

Austria frowned slightly as he stepped forward, unbuttoning Spain’s shirt. 

“Convenient for him. Does he often lose to other nations?” 

"It was an ambush… he destroyed France's ship and Lucille was dying so I made the wrong decision… it cost us both."

Austria’s frown only deepened when Spain’s torso was revealed. The stab wounds, the bullet wounds, all the heapings of abuse scarred over from Spain’s time on the sea. Austria sighed, barely touching Spain. He’d always barely touched him. “I remember when you didn’t have a scratch on you. Has it been worth it?” Austria asked, pulling his hand back. 

"At first I didn't think so… but yes. It's been worth it. Do you remember this one?" Spain pointed to one on his side, a wound long healed but newer than the others. Only a few years old. "This was from you." 

Austria's brow quirked, "oh." 

Spain was smiling, "but it didn't kill me. My ship's doctor did." 

_ "What?"  _

Spain looked down, "sorry. Uhm, I just got carried away." He cleared his throat, "what do you think? Is everything to your liking?" Spain hoped he'd say yes, not look any further. 

“No. I know what England’s like. I’ve heard the rumors. I know he’s not in this new alliance for purely altruistic reasons. Show me everything.” Austria pushed his glasses further up his nose. 

"Are you sure…?" Spain hesitated. "I-- I mean… I'm fine." 

“Yes. I have seen everything before, nothing to be embarrassed about. Unless there is something… Antonio, please. I know we haven’t been exactly close and if this is truly what you want I won’t stop you. However, I won’t let you be taken in by someone so unstable. Not if using and hurting you is part of it. Show me, that’s the last I’ll ask of you,” Austria said cooly.

"Okay, okay," Spain nodded, "Uhm, again, just so you know, uh, Lucille sort of… you know." 

“I don’t know. What happened? You can tell me,” Austria said, still sounding distant even when he was being supportive. 

"She, uh, it's a bit of a sore spot, honestly…" Spain said softly, "uh…" Spain sighed, he swallowed thickly. "What happened," Spain turned, showing Austria his back. "She slashed my back," he moved so the light of a candle revealed the lattices across his back. "She, uh, stabbed my hand," he held his hand up to show Austria the scar through his palm. "And then she… knife raped me and shot me in the head." He added the headshot quickly, trying to erase what he'd said. 

Austria's demeanor changed. His muscles going tense and betraying his emotion-controlled stare.  _ "What?"  _

"I-- It's okay though!" Spain said, "Uhm, England helped me through… he's helped a lot… he made sure my wounds were clean and he helped treat the pain… and now he's helping the scar tissue heal properly…" Spain slapped himself mentally, he didn't need to mention that bit… 

“Antonio… Do you hear yourself? He treats your wounds, but why does he allow you to be hurt in the first place? He’s either manipulating you or he’s incompetent. You said… with a knife?!” Austria looked appalled. He started shaking his head. “Antonio… I don’t like this. I want to trust your judgment but how can I when you’ve been so abused?” 

Spain wasn't sure what he could say, deciding there was nothing he could say to please Roderich. 

"Listen, when England and I first crossed paths a couple of weeks ago, he did unspeakable things. But he's changing, he's changing every day. And it's phenomenal how much he's come along in such a short period of time… then Lucille attacked, we were alone and unprepared. France kept England busy and Lucille fought me. We both lost on that day… but he left his wounds untreated to treat mine. He gave my first mate and sole survivor of my crew a purpose on his ship… my first mate became Andorra after Lucille  _ killed  _ Andorra. She killed a nation in a way that meant they couldn't revive, they had no choice but to reincarnate. She's a monster… and now she's a nation too. She works for France, but she has this power over him too…" 

“If that’s the case then I should take you all into custody, to protect you. I want nothing more than to take you back to my house, take you away from this conflict. Let England and France fight it out, it’s what they’ve done for the last thousand years and will continue to do for the next thousand. You don’t need to involve yourself,” Austria moved to stroke down Spain’s arm and gently take his hand. A rare display of affection. 

Spain closed his eyes and sighed softly, "I can't…" he pulled his hand back. "I don't want to… things  _ happened _ between them. Awful things. I made a promise not to let England go through it alone anymore…" 

“And what about the promise you made to me? I know we’ve drifted apart but does our marriage mean nothing to you now? You truly prefer… this pain and suffering to my ‘cold unfeeling halls’, as you put it?” 

"Roderich, we're finished. We've been finished for nearly one-hundred years… I might have endured pain and suffering in that time, but I've never felt so alive… we don't have to be enemies, dislike each other like our countries now do. I don't dislike you, but I can't be with you at your house. I belong on the sea. England gets that. But nothing is stopping us from having a political alliance. Something that will put us in good stead if France and Lucille attack again. Either of us." 

Austria didn’t flinch or falter when Spain said they were through, he wasn’t surprised by it. Spain had run away from him under no uncertain terms. But choosing  _ England _ of all countries - arrogant, violent, capricious… Austria would never understand it. That lack of understanding is why they didn’t work in the first place. He sighed deeply and pushed his hair back over his scalp.

“I’m not going to get involved with a nation-killer. But in acknowledgment of your independence and our former relationship I’ll help you one last time. I’ll never understand your choices, but I’m not as crass as England to force them from you either. I appreciate the warning and you telling me about two new Andorras. I’ll resupply England’s ship and send you off on your pirating ways,” Austria explained. 

"Thank you…" Spain smiled, starting to put his shirt on again, "and please be careful." 

Austria paused, still puzzled over something Spain had said. 

“You said England is helping you… Heal your scars? Actually… Nevermind. I don’t want to know. You’re both incomprehensible,” Austria shook his head, only imagining what England’s help might look like. 

Spain hummed a small laugh, "you definitely don't want to know… but seriously. Thank you, and stay safe." 

“Easier said than done with pirates everywhere,” Austria sniffed, clearly disapproving of Spain’s life choices even if he didn’t say it outright. “Trade routes are where the real profit lies. Anyway, let’s go wrangle the wild one.” Austria moved toward the locked door and opened it, stepping out onto the deck. England who had been watching through the small window into the captain’s quarters, peering through the small crack in the curtains which hadn’t been fully drawn, charged him from the side and barreled into him. 

“How fucking dare you touch him! I told you he’s mine! I’ll kill you!” England raged, tackling Austria to the ground who hadn’t been expecting the attack and he pulled a fist back to punch him right in his snooty mouth. 

"England!" Spain cried, "no!" He rushed forward and grabbed England's fist, somehow before it could connect to Austria's face. "He's going to help us!" 

“I don’t fucking care, no one’s allowed to touch you but me!” 

Austria finally recovered from his shock and propped himself up on his elbows and shoved England back off him before he could break loose from Spain and deck him. The sound of several dozen pistols and rifles being drawn and cocked surrounded them. In the time it took Spain to negotiate their safe passage Austria’s other ships had circled the two bound boats and had them hemmed in on either side, cannons loaded, the rail lined with Austrian men in their standard uniforms. 

Spain restrained England, using all of his strength to keep him immobile. "He didn't do anything! We just talked! I explained what was happening and he's agreed to help, all he wanted was to check I wasn't hurt… which he did. And he's satisfied. So we can have some food! Don't ruin it now!" 

England seethed, strained against Spain’s grip. He heard the words but couldn’t just turn his temper off in an instant. 

Austria stood up and glared at the two of them. 

“And this is what you left me for? I hope you know what you’re doing, only a wild dog will bite the hand that feeds it.” 

Hearing the insult England, who had at least been trying to heel himself, went right back into the red and he surged at Austria again, only Spain’s arms around his waist holding him back stopped him from going for another punch. An inarticulate gravelly yell followed by “Let me go, Spain!”

"No!" Spain returned, "not until you calm down." One hand loosened from around his waist, he knew this wasn't what England wanted, if he did this then England's men would know that he wasn't just his bitch. But he carded his fingers into England's hair and whispered, "please… you can take out your frustrations later, we could duel or you could dominate me. But let me just handle this… please?" 

England felt his touch, still felt lava rage burning him up inside, but the feeling of fingers against his scalp was nice, was a distraction, a confirmation that Spain  _ did  _ choose him. England sucked air through his gritted teeth and shook his head looking away from Austria and back over his shoulder at Spain. 

“You better be ready,” England growled, though he could feel logic winning out over his frustration. The sound of all those guns also put into perspective just how precarious their situation was. He took a deep breath and finally turned away fully from Austria, looking directly at Spain. “I’ll destroy you if you’re not.” 

Spain smirked, "I look forward to it,  _ love."  _ Then he turned back to Austria, "I'm sorry, are you alright?" 

Austria looked miffed but no worse for wear. 

“Fine. I have more important things to do than get between a pair of fools. England, call your men off, now,” Austria commanded, sneering down at the two of them. 

“Fucking prick. How do I know you’re not just going to sink us as soon as we’re all in one tidy spot?” Spain may trust his old spouse but England did not. 

“Spain, talk some sense into him. I need to attend to the damage on my ship,” Austria said stiffly before turning and ignoring England’s protests. 

Spain didn't even consult England, he just stood. 

"We'll withdraw on one condition." He said firmly. "You remain here with us, give each man enough food and let them bring it onto England's ship - then you can leave." 

Austria straightened even more if it were possible with his already-stiff posture. 

“You’re not really in a position to make demands. But, fine. I’ll wait here. It’s going to take a while to patch the hole you blew open in my room, might as well drop anchor here for the night,” Austria snapped an order to his men who began prepping the ships to settle in and work on food, repairs, and shifting supplies. “You’re a day’s sail from Nantes, you can make your way inland via the Loire river. You should have enough to get you there. Don’t expect another handout if I come across you sailing under a pirate flag again.” 

Spain nodded, "all I can say is thank you for this time…" 

“I’m not saying thank you,” England snapped. 

Austria gave him a withering stare. “No, of course, you wouldn’t. Do you at least have some decent wine for us to pass the time?” 

“I trashed a year’s worth of French shit a week ago. All we have on my boat is rum,” England said, still proud of that feat. 

Austria sighed again, long-suffering, and waved a hand at him. “Fine, fine, anything to move this along.” 

Spain watched them, not sure if rum was a good idea with the ever-present tension. But he was more than willing to stay sober and mediate. 

England's men all filed back aboard, laden with supplies, Austria's men were hammering and sawing away, and the three nations wandered up to the helm to watch, an uneasy truce keeping everything in line. 

Spain froze when he saw Mateo, still chained to the wheel, Austria wouldn't like that… 

"Uh, this is Andorra." 

Austria's eyes narrowed at the missing limb, the fact he was chained to the wheel. 

"So, you're enslaving more than mortals now I see…"

"It was his fault for attacking me! He's not a slave, just unpredictable," England said defensively. Ironic, coming from him. 

**"What did he say?"** Mateo asked Spain. 

**"He said you aren't a slave, just unpredictable."**

**"Before that."**

**"You're in chains because you attacked him."**

**"Only because he called you a bitch!"** He scowled at England,  **"I'd do it again!"**

Austria was frowning between the three of them, growing more annoyed by the second. "I'm astonished you're choosing this dysfunctional mess… What's the appeal? Being belittled, your crew in chains, constant bickering?" 

"Shut it. It's got nothing to do with you," England glared at Austria. 

"Clearly," he replied, looking above it all. 

Spain sighed. 

**"Who's that?"** Mateo nodded at Austria. 

**"Austria, a former alliance."**

**"Like the one with England?"**

**"Sort of."**

**"Ah."**

“It’s not the same-” both England and Austria stopping to stare at each other having started to say the exact same thing at the exact same time. 

Spain found it amusing, stifling a smile. 

Mateo looked between the other nations, rolling his eyes and sitting down on the deck, arm hanging in the air from where it was still restrained. 

"England, will you please take it off him?" Spain asked. 

“Fine. I was already planning to anyway,” England pulled the loop of keys from his jacket and unlocked the cuff finally. “It was his own damn fault, to begin with.” 

At that moment a man came up with England’s silver flagon, a waterskin, and four cups. England took them with a quick nod, sending the man scurrying away again. England quickly poured out the amber liquid into each, handing it off once he did. With Spain’s cup, he set the flagon aside and poured him a cup of water. Austria noticed and quirked an eyebrow but didn’t say anything and England didn’t explain. 

"Thanks," Spain smiled, taking a sip. 

Mateo was next, looking at Spain and smiling behind his cup before drinking. 

“Hey, fuckers. A toast. To breaking bonds and forging new ones,” England said with a sneer in Austria’s direction, lifting his cup in the air. 

“I’m not toasting to that,” Austria said flatly, giving England a cold look. 

Spain raised his cup, "to breaking bonds and forging new ones." 

Mateo followed Spain's lead, albeit not speaking. 

They all three drank deeply at that, Austria following a few moments later with an unrelated sip. 

\----

The sun was just beginning to illuminate the horizon when Austria boarded his own ship again. 

They were fully stocked with provisions and Spain waved to Austria as he left. 

Once all men were exchanged, all cargo aboard, the boarding planks were lifted and ropes cut. The sail was patched up with fresh canvas and fully unfurled to catch the light of the morning sun. Mateo began steering clear of the three ships. 

England was standing at the bow with Spain holding him around the waist leaning together against the rail. England had been very touchy and possessive of him the whole night while Austria was there glaring at them. He wasn't inclined to stop now that he was gone. It was genuine. 

"Well, that ended pretty well for us all things considered. "

Spain hummed, closing his eyes and leaning into England, "yeah, no thanks to you~" Spain teased. 

"It's your fault for not telling me that you were already married, Jesus... It caught me by surprise and well, I guess I can admit I didn't react with my best self. "

Spain hummed again, "it's partly my fault for not telling you when I told you the rest of the story… but still, we've been finished for literally a century - we went to war with each other for eight years, he shot me three years ago. Whatever was there isn't there anymore." 

"It's never easy for us, is it? " England nuzzled in and kissed Spain under his ear feeling warm around him. Suddenly he remembered something. "Oh, Spain, how's your ass?"

"Want to find out?" Spain smirked. 

"Well, we can't leave it in there forever. Unless you like walking around with a stick up your ass," England laughed.

Spain's smirk grew bigger. "I'd prefer something else up there." 

"Only if you can handle it, love. I ain't doing that if it's going to tear you open again. That was traumatic for both of us, "England said with a grimace.

Spain nodded, "it might hurt a little… but I'm ready this time. We both are." He rested his hand on England's back. "Besides, weren't you going to take out your frustrations?" Spain grinned. 

"You're right I was, wasn't I? Where do you want to do it? I guess the bed would be the most comfortable. Let's go. "

Spain nodded, following him to his quarters, not blind to the leering eyes of England's men. Once inside the room he made sure the small window's curtains were fully closed. 

England walked in and was slowly shedding his clothes, getting more comfortable, finally relaxing after putting up a tough front in front of another nation for so long. It felt nice to be loose around Spain and let him see him with his guard down. He sauntered over to the bed and flopped down upon it face up giving a deep sigh. “Come here, love."

Spain locked the door, approaching him and sitting onto the bed beside him, and leaning down to kiss him. 

England opened up to the kiss immediately feeling greedy and needy. He hadn't drunk as much throughout the night, wanting to be soberer around Austria as well as be able to feel and enjoy it later on with Spain. So he was only slightly tipsy lying there kissing and moaning against Spain's lips cupping his face and tilting his own so they could delve deeper.

Spain moaned softly, licking into England's mouth and tasting the subtle hint of alcohol. He'd been getting used to this, slowly associating rum in a non-destructive way, a way that was synonymous with England but inherently good, almost comforting. He shuffled on top of England so their chests pressed together, his legs straddling one of England's thighs. Flush against him. 

He nibbled England's lower lip, sucking it between his teeth and lightly tugging, leaving his lips red and well-bitten. 

England moved restlessly under Spain, hips seeking up against his nudging their cocks together through their clothes. He felt dizzy, but in a good way, like butterflies swirling rather than vertigo. He broke away to pant and said, “It gets better every time with you, doesn't it? "England moved his hands from Spain's face flipping over his shoulders and holding on to him there he hiked the leg up over his hips so they could grind more intimately. He knew he should be looking at Spain's ass right now, but it just felt so good having him on top of him. He didn't want to move just yet.

Spain's breath caught in his throat as England shifted them, jostling the spoke, and started grinding against him in return. Deep undulations of his hips, hands braced on England's chest, fingers splayed, and feeling his heartbeat through his skin. 

"I could say the same thing about you-- ah… fuck!" 

England moved his hands lower, gripping his ass and spreading him, pulling him down harder over him, rolling up against him at the same time. His fingertips found the base of the spoke and he pushed against it, just enough to jiggle it.

Spain settled into a nice rhythm, pressing down against England and grinding his dick against his. But he didn't expect the moan that escaped his lips as England moved the spoke. His eyes flew open and he looked down at him, face turning a furious red. 

"D-- Definitely healed…" 

"Mmmm, good… that's what I wanted to hear…" England put more force into his hands, shoving at the spoke to match the movement of their hips. Their dicks were hot and hard and chafing in their pants. "Come on, let's get these off..."

Spain moaned again, leaning heavily on England's chest, he didn't want to stop, didn't want to move, just wanted  _ more  _ of England's heat. 

"Fuck…" he lifted off and began working at his own pants. He didn't make any move to touch his shirt. England's shirt. 

While Spain raised himself for the briefest moment to shuck his pants off, England did the same and when he laid back down on top of him their cocks made wet sounds rubbing together. England went right back to pushing at the spoke, more forcefully and direct about it, actually gripping it by the base and drawing it slightly out before shoving back in. His own hips augmenting the pressure.

"Fuck this is hot, fucking on the back and the front at the same time…." England panted, licking up Spain's exposed neck.

Spain clenched around the spoke, moaning needily, he arched his back and held onto England's shoulders. 

"I know how to make this even better… Here, switch around so I can suck you at the same time," England panted. 

Spain couldn't help the short moan at just the thought. He did as he was told, turning so he was facing England's dick, he blushed. He licked the tip of England's cock, taking it in his mouth and swirling his tongue around the head, lightly suckling. 

England matched him as Spain’s thighs were straddled over his face. In the cabin the morning light was dim, curtains drawn, so his legs were deeply shadowed and dick hanging down fully and thick between them just hit the limited light like overripe fruit. England admired the view for a moment, strung out between the hotness of Spain exposed so fully in front of his face and the stimulation of suction as he went on moaning and slurping around his cock. England’s mouth fell open in wordless pleasure, and he craned his neck up to lick at the tip, a heavily honeyed jewel that fit warm and salty against his tongue. While he swirled around the head he grabbed blindly for a pillow to shove under his neck for a better angle. He then proceeded to slither his hands up Spain’s flanks, over the swell of his ass and found the base of the spoke still lodged in place. He had more leverage from this position and he used his thumbs to angle it in a clockwise motion, not twisting or pulling at it, just pressing in applying pressure steadily around. 

As soon as England started his assault, Spain began writhing above him, trembling and he lifted off England's cock and moaned, panting softly. His hole clenched uselessly against the spoke, and he ducked his head to kitten lick at England's shaft. Leaning on his right elbow and with England's cock in his left hand, he licked a long stripe from base to tip before taking him down again, working the side of his dick with his tongue. He hummed quietly, swallowing him down and suppressing his gag reflex before going back to suckling the head. 

England felt the way Spain worked him, different focus on different areas until his entire dick and pelvis was wet from his mouth, the trapped heat between them just rising higher and higher. England wanted to make him fall first and refocused his efforts, angling the spoke downward and jerking it in and out with short rapid thrusts, his mouth humming and sucking fiercely around the tip of his dick. He could feel the motion of the spoke inside Spain, the reverberation through his dick and into his mouth. The idea sent yet another hot wave through England, made his hips buck and twitch against Spain’s clever tongue. He might not make it at the rate he was going and with it becoming an unspoken competition shifted and rubbed his legs together, almost to distract himself from the pleasure Spain was giving him, focus more on making him come undone.

Spain could feel the heat in his belly, ever-growing and all-consuming. He took England down again with a deep moan before lifting off completely. He didn't want to stop at just this, needed more, desperate for more. He shifted so his dick was no longer in England's mouth, panting as he took a moment, turning himself around to look at England. 

He reached behind himself and removed the spoke, gently, carefully, and ground against England. Their hips were flush together, and Spain let England's spit-covered cock press against his greased hole. Using one hand to balance, the other helped England breach his rim, and with steadying breaths he sank the rest of the way, feeling the slight stretch and burn, but no longer accompanied by agonizing pain. He trembled and shook, muscles coiled tightly. But when he bottomed out he paused, let the feeling of orgasm fade as he waited just a moment, looking down at England and taking him in. 

He looked good, flushed and bitten lips parted slightly, skin tinged rouge, eyes hazed with lust and need, and his hair a tousled mess. Spain's hands roamed over his torso, down his abdomen, and appreciatively back up to his pecs, stroking his thumbs along England's collarbones while his hands were splayed over England's chest. 

England was grateful for the tight heat of Spain’s ass around him, glad that he’d been willing to go on top and set the pace. As Spain had sank down on him, he’d held completely still, not wanting to accidentally hurt him or go too fast, but with them resting together now, interlocked as close as they could get, England could see the effect on Spain. 

“Are you good? Nothing hurts?” England asked, his voice breathy and quiet, reverent as he looked up and drank in the sight of Spain facing him, on top of him, half-shadowed and yet fully lit with pleasure. It suddenly struck England that they’d never done this before. Never faced each other when they did this. It was always from behind or the side, or with someone on his knees. He shivered in anticipation instead of fear, there was no need to curl inward, no need to hide from him. 

"Nothing hurts," Spain replied breathlessly, "quite the opposite." And he rolled his hips carefully, moaning softly at the sensation. He smiled down at England, moving to cup his cheeks and steal his lips in his own. 

England twitched upward, hands grabbing at Spain’s thick hair to keep him in place and kiss him back desperately, his hips working up and down to slide against Spain’s hole, rock up into him. It felt so good, the heat and the gripping silkiness, the fact that it felt good for Spain too, that they could moan and kiss and feel so grounded and present and alive. It ran a conduit between them and England felt enflamed by Spain’s pleasure. Gratefully he snaked his hand between them and gripped Spain’s cock, pumping him slowly.

Spain's mouth opened in a silent moan and he began riding England's cock, he did moan this time, thrusting into England's hand then back onto his cock. 

"Fuck…" Spain cursed, the heat was back, muscles tensing, so much stimulation. He was so close but it was just out of reach for him, and he began rolling and grinding his hips against England's. 

England’s mouth had gone slack against Spain’s from concentrating on matching his movement against Spain’s pace, driving up at the same time he thrust his hips down. He wanted to see, wanted to look at Spain in this state and watch him unravel on him. He lolled his head back, gently pushing Spain up by his shoulders, groaning from the anticipation. 

“Spain… Show me everything - I want to see you…”

Spain sat up, moving his hips frantically and he looked into England's eyes, crying out as he came undone on England's cock, clenching around him and cumming across his chest and stomach. 

England felt the hot streaks land on him, anointing him, making him sacred instead of dirty, and he felt himself easily chasing after Spain’s completion. The spasming tightness, Spain’s eyes reflecting only him, mouth trembling open in unabashed pleasure, England thrust erratically into him for a few seconds until his orgasm bowled through him, slamming his hips up high and holding Spain there as he shot deep into him. It seemed to last far longer, carve deeper, and sear sweeter than any time before and England let out a cry that could have been a hallelujah. 

Spain couldn't help but cry out again when he felt England spill inside him, he leaned heavily on England's chest, panting and gasping quietly. He lifted his gaze to meet England's, smiling, falling against him, boneless. England held him, slipped out of him, and they laid there together, cuddling in the residual warmth. 

England didn’t know how long they laid like that, he drifted off, so comfy and drowsy beneath Spain and he wasn’t sure if it was minutes or hours. However, he finally needed to get up when he felt an arm starting to go numb from the position. He yawned and shifted and rubbed Spain until he responded. “Hey love, I need to get up.”

Spain groaned softly in disapproval, but moved anyway and sank into the bed again with a yawn, looking up at England lazily. 

"Captain duties?" 

England stretched and rolled his shoulders as he stood, giving his neck a pop one way and then the other. “They never end, as you know. I haven’t had time to restock my personal pantry so you’ll have to scrounge in the galley if you’re hungry,” England said with an easy smile as he went to the water basin to dab and rub the dried flakes of semen off himself before going about redressing. 

Spain did not attempt moving, snuggling into England's bed and yawning again. Already half asleep, he watched England with heavy eyes. A dark part of his mind said something to him, about how his captain duties stopped after England killed his crew. But instead, he closed his eyes to mourn quietly. Feeling the unpleasant sting in his eyes and the swell of nausea in his throat. He swallowed thickly and turned away to bury his head into the pillow. 

Before England left - his hat set precisely on his head at a jaunty angle, a fresh cravat and jade carved pin around his throat, matching green jacket to accompany it - he turned and came to the bedside. He tousled Spain’s hair, leaning down to kiss the top of his head. 

“Thank you, that was… Hmm, I really liked that. We should do it again sometime,” England stroked down his back as he rose to leave. Once out on deck he breathed in the air deeply, turned his face up toward the sun, and smiled to himself. It was a beautiful clement day, a brisk breeze carrying them steadily along calm waters. He closed his eyes and felt outward for a trace of connection and caught it. They were still a ways off but he was getting closer to home. Closer to the seat of his power. He opened his eyes and began strutting along the deck, talking to his men and making sure the chores were being done and everything was in order. 

As he walked among them he kept being asked in little side comments and slight jabs about what he’d been doing to Spain. All of them drooling for more details but still afraid to push too far. Ever since the surreal orgy they’d all experienced on the sea England noticed his crew were far more forward and open about their sexual appetites. How they had shifted to be more… omnivorous. They would consume anything it seemed, no longer pining for just women at the port, but any object of desire available. Namely, Spain. Ever since England had highlighted his label as bitch, they all felt free to ogle and fantasize about wide Spanish eyes, full lips, and his well-trained mouth. 

England didn’t mind it. Made his sexual prowess seem all the more impressive, made him feel more powerful and confident. He spoon-fed them each different tidbits, small details that were based in truth but stretched just a bit. Made Spain seem more servile, himself more domineering. They didn’t need to hear about them locking eyes or cuddling, but he knew they would all talk and gossip later, add the pieces up to make a full sordid tale for them to jerk each other off to later in the hold or whatever it was they did down there. England felt like the master and commander of his ship, wholly in control, even of his men’s desires. 

By the time he made his way up to the helm to speak with Mateo, he was full of gloating swagger and a cocky glint in his eye. 

“Hey there, Andorra,” England said slyly, pulling the spoke from his inner jacket pocket and nonchalantly screwing it back into place on the wheel right under his nose. 

Mateo looked at him with narrowed, suspicious eyes. 

**"Where was that?"** He asked, wondering where the spoke had been since almost two days prior.

“Oh, you know, just up Spain’s ass. He loved it,” England replied, jerking his hand suggestively to get the meaning across.

Mateo scowled, not understanding what he said other than  _ Spain's ass  _ and the motion of his fist. So he decided to play dumb. 

**"Ah, you need real wood to compensate for your lack of sexual prowess."** He nodded, **"can't say I understand what that's like."**

England had been prepared for Mateo to attack him again after the last few times he’d insulted Spain’s honor, but he wasn’t expecting the verbal counter. Still, he was in too good of a mood to let it get to him and he grinned wider in response knowing the truth would have a greater impact. “ **It was to help dilate his scars after that bitch stabbed him, you know, your counterpart. Who’s only alive because of you, so… Don’t forget who’s really taking care of Spain. You’re just a subordinate,** ” England said with a sneer, hoping to twist the knife a bit and remind him of his guilt. 

Mateo focused on the horizon. 

**"If you paid attention, you'd see Spain was still hurting because of** **_you."_ **

England frowned and wondered what he could possibly mean. He’d just reached a new level with Spain, felt closer to him than before, reestablishing themselves after Austria and taking care of one another in a way that felt uniquely special. What else could he possibly be hurting about? 

“ **Come off it. He’s fine. Keep focused on what you’re good at instead of worrying about him. We should be coming into my territory soon enough,** ” England scoffed, already striding away. 

**"He still has nightmares, you know."** Mateo half-shouted, not to announce to the whole crew, just England.

England paused at the top of the stairs, feeling a twinge of anxiety cut through the bravado. Still, nothing he couldn’t figure out. He had plenty of experience with nightmares after all. He went down the stairs carrying on as if he hadn’t heard. 

\----

Spain wasn't sure when he'd fallen asleep, but when he jolted awake again his heart was racing in his chest, breath coming in harsh pants. He looked around, eyes wide and alert. His skin was fever stung, aching and every caress of the bedsheets left him even sorer. Static in his ears blocked out all noise and made him shake his head, promptly stopping upon the feeling of a headache threatening to break free from his skull. His mouth was dry, and hyperventilating didn't help. It felt as if he was drowning, couldn't draw in a breath fast enough... 

He cradled himself, skin protesting with sharp pinpricks, hands coming up to his face to wipe at the tears streaming down his face…

He'd lost everything…

Everyone… 

Dead. 

Tens of miles away from their bodies yet he could still feel it as raw as the day they died.

He swallowed thickly. Inhaled. Exhaled. 

In.

Out. 

In. 

Out…

Then the sob broke from his lips like a maelstrom unleashed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In 1740 to 1748 there was the War of Austrian Succession, in which Spain allied with France, Prussia, and several other countries and territories who challenged Austria and others to a war that lasted almost eight years. The outcome of the war was Prussia being recognized as a major kingdom. England joined the alliance with Austria only because he wanted to kick France in the balls. Just once.


	13. Stolen Like Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares plague Spain. Some follow him to England.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who got cozy? Time to wake up.
> 
> Extra warning for assault in this chapter.

It was hours later when Mateo gave the call for “Land ho!” but England had already felt it coming over the horizon before it was visible. His misty, hilly, colorful land. Tea and gunpowder and smoke and still a flash of forest running through his senses. He knew every street and alley, every glen and vale, every hidden place and proud vista. They pulsed through him as steadily as his heartbeat, the chorus of muted English voices in their tapestry of accents creating a texture to his thoughts. It felt good to be home. He hadn’t seen his land after years abroad. 

They came steadily closer, England felt pulled like a magnet, and just as the sun was beginning its slow downward plunge into dusk they finally pulled into port. The men worked quickly to dock and England was the first to leap off the ship from the rail onto the boardwalk, not even waiting for the gangway. The first steps on his land always felt amazing, like a long cool drink after a dry spell. 

He grinned and looked around to the rail behind him, trying to find Spain’s face but he couldn’t see him anywhere. He hadn’t seen him all day, actually… 

He saw Mateo with some of his men working to secure the boat to the mooring and he yelled at him "Hey Andorra, where's Spain? "

Mateo looked over at England, shrugging. "Cabin?" He tried in English. 

England stood there on the deck feeling the dual pull of going on land and being among his people among his culture and going back onto the boat to get Spain so he could share it with someone. He gave a huff of annoyance as he stood there tapping his boot waiting for the gangway to finally be lowered down so he could march right back up to his boat and grab Spain and drag him off. It was so strange he hadn't already come up on deck to see the commotion. England ran up the boardwalk of the gangway and his men made way and he ran back to his cabin feeling nearly giddy. 

When he got there he loudly kicked the door open figuring Spain must have fallen asleep again. He burst in with a sing-song voice “Come on sleepy head! I got a whole town to show you, " England paused seeing that Spain was still on the bed curled up.

Spain shot up into a sitting position, trying to shrug off the horrible feeling he was experiencing thanks to the nightmare. He rolled his shoulders. 

"Sorry, I… dozed off." He excused himself, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, taking a moment to re-orientate himself. 

"It's about time you woke up! I know my dick is breathtaking and riding it this morning probably took it out of you, but come on we're here! There are so many places I want to show you! Get up already, let's go. " England moved to hold a hand out to Spain waiting for him to grab it. 

Spain nodded, taking his hand and standing up, quickly throwing on some pants and a shirt. 

"Ready," he said, subdued. 

"I'm ready to tuck in, what are you in the mood for? My men will take care of everything so we're free. Do you want to bring Andorra along? Otherwise, I might ravage you behind a tavern," England said playfully, tugging Spain along to the gangway.

Spain smiled, looking at Mateo still helping to finish securing the vessel. He made a motioning gesture with his hand. 

Mateo looked around, before looking at Spain again and nodding. Following him and England off the ship. 

England trotted down the ramp forcing Spain to jog behind him and didn’t stop once he hit the pier, kept running and pulling Spain until finally, they reached the shore. Finally, England released him in order to spin with his arms upraised not caring for the stares he was getting. He could feel the currents through the ground, could feel his skin tingling with power and life and a warm hum inside him that were his people. He finally stopped spinning and looked at Spain with a dizzied grin. 

“How long’s it been for you? Since you were home?” 

Spain hummed in thought, "well… It was… about ten years ago. I was there for ten years then took to the sea with Mateo."

“That long? Wow, you’ll probably jizz in your pants when you go back for the first time,” England laughed easily. He didn’t think anything could ruin his good mood. “Food first? Or are you okay watching me drink? I don’t care which comes first.” 

Spain shrugged, "I don't mind, take me to your favorite places." 

Mateo looked between them, looking specifically at Spain. After twenty years he could tell when he was preoccupied, and this time was no different. He could see the physical toll of sleepless nights on his face.

England didn’t notice whatsoever, in his own little world showing off and flirting with Spain without really even looking at him, just constantly pointing things out to him, giving history on different buildings and churches and properties as they strolled through the harbor. 

“Oh, this place makes the best scones! We’ll get something there later. This place burnt down 100 years ago but these monks rebuilt it. But by far, this pub down here, good prices, good rowdy atmosphere, makes sure you watch your drinks because pirates are known to shanghai folks right out of there. Guess you’ll have to watch my back since you’re not drinking at all…” 

"Right, right," Spain nodded, eyes feeling like sandpaper, "we'll be fine, I'll keep my eye on you." 

England strolled into the packed seaside pub, shouldering his way through the crowd and throwing more than a couple of elbows to make way from himself and the other to. Where England easily pushed through with his usual brashness and didn’t care what anyone thought, those who he shoved and hit turned to glare at Spain and Mateo following after him, and the other two received the angry stares and rude comments and a few returned elbows. They stood out like sore thumbs in the mostly white crowd. 

Spain wanted to stand up for himself, didn't appreciate the unwanted attention, but he didn't know where he stood, whether that would upset England and push them back in their development. So he took the brutish behavior, opting to walk with his head held high and a swagger to his step. 

Mateo, however, didn't. He towered over most in the pub, and the first hard stare he received he squared up against them to show he wouldn't be intimidated. 

Spain turned to see him,  **"Mateo…"** he hissed. 

England happened to look back and grinned wildly when he saw his countrymen starting to gang up on Mateo. He spun around and before Spain or Mateo could do anything else and leaped forward and slugged a portly man across the jaw. Spain may have wanted to play nice but England was untouchable and had too much energy to spare. A bar fight would be a great way to start the night. 

The man stumbled back, was caught by several other patrons who shoved him back with a cacophony of shouting. England squared up, ready for more, but his no-shit attitude got through and it was too early in the evening for the typical chaos. Give it a few hours and pull that stunt again and England knew the whole place would have erupted. But the crowd seemed to relent and England shot a final glare around before turning back to get their drinks as if nothing happened. 

“What do you want? Anything? Andorra, what about you?” 

Spain shook his head, "I better not…" he wasn't sure what the other patrons would try to do to his drink after what'd just happened. 

Mateo looked between them, then nodded, "yes. Rum." He'd learned that much since being on England's ship. 

England shot him an approving nod and clapped Spain on the shoulder before turning and getting his order. Three ceramic mugs, one with rum, another with brown ale, and a third with rosewater. 

“Here love, you have to toast with something. To being home, and to being free!” England said jubilant, raising his glass to clack against theirs. 

Mateo tapped his cup against England and Spain's before taking a swig.

Spain joined the toast before lowering his cup, looking into his cup at his own reflection. He looked bad. He brought it to his lips so he didn't have to look at himself anymore. 

England drained his entire cup in one long chugging session, taking it from his lips with a satisfied smack of his lips and loud exhale. 

“Well, that’s one! Want to keep track for me, Spain?” England laughed, grabbing him by the belt loops on his pants and pulling him in close so they were right in each other’s space. He kissed him, right there in the middle of the crowd, up near the bar, not caring what anyone saw or thought. His hands snaked around to the back and squeezed his butt, slipping his tongue in at the same time, tasting the delicate floral rosewater lingering on his tongue. He leaned back and felt a mischievous smirk twist his lips, catching Spain’s eyes and enjoying the surprise he saw there. 

“I’m having another then,” England said lightly, patting Spain’s butt before he went back to the bar and got another beer. 

Spain watched him swoop in like a tornado and leave again just as fast, left breathless from just that little bit of contact and he suddenly felt too hot. 

**"Watch my drink,"** he said to Mateo,  **"I just need some air."**

**"Are you--"**

**"I'm fine, I promise,"** Spain reassured,  **"I just need a moment."**

Mateo nodded, watching Spain as he weaved his way through the crowd and out of the pub. 

More than one set of pale blue eyes followed him. 

Spain sighed, breathing in the sea air and closing his eyes. If this is what England was like in his own country, Spain was flabbergasted by the difference or the similarity, he wasn't sure. He leaned against the wall of the tavern, hitting his head lightly against the wall and looking up at the darkening sky. Being here was making him homesick…

A large group of men came out after him, lingering around the entranceway, talking and being loud. Several of them looked at Spain curiously, some more mean-looking than others. Spain didn't want any trouble so he pushed off the wall and went around to the side, just needing to get away from people for a moment. 

He'd just turned the corner when rapid footsteps approached and before he could even turn around to see, someone had yanked a sack over his head from behind, pulling him backward off balance. 

A muffled  _ hey! _ Was audible from the sack as Spain grappled for something to stop himself from falling. He fell into someone, and he immediately tried to jump away, but he found a constricting hold around his middle. He continued to struggle, grunting as he did so. The sack smelled funny, like earth and stale dirt and Spain scrunched his nose. 

"Grab his arms, don't let him see us!" 

"I thought he was supposed to be freaky strong? "

"Apparently only when there are other Spaniards around," 

"He's fucked!" 

"That's the idea," 

"Can't believe the captain was keeping him all to himself…" 

“Shh- shut up, he can still hear us, idiot!”

There were many voices, many hands, he couldn’t count how many, couldn't differentiate, unable to do anything against the coarse rope tied around his neck, the end of it bonding his wrists behind his back, not enough slack for either to relax, forced to constantly arch. He was shuffled further and further down the alley, stumbling but caught by all the hands on him.

Panic was starting to set in, he couldn't see, could barely move, he was being led somewhere and didn't know where - in a foreign country where he couldn't get his bearings. 

He strained against the rope, wrists being rubbed raw. 

"Come on, we have to be quick."

"Do we have enough time for all of us?"

"He's drinking, it'll take him a while to notice."

"Let's get started then!" 

The hands pushing and grabbing at Spain started pulling and tearing at his clothes. Buttons went flying off as his shirt was wrenched open. His belt loosened and several pairs of hands working under the waist to drop them around his ankles. He was slammed against a wall, wet, grimy stone rubbing against his chest. 

"Who's going first?"

"It was my idea, I'll be quick,"

While some men held him down, another came behind him and palmed his wrenched-out ass. 

Spain realized what was happening almost as soon as they began tearing his clothes off. "No! Stop!" He started struggling even harder, he kicked off his pants and began using his legs to kick behind himself blindly. 

"Hold him!" More hands against his legs, pinning him down. 

"Hey we might need to gag him," a hand grabbed his hair through the burlap

"Here, this should help shut him up" a hot rod of flesh against his ass. Even through the sack, Spain could smell how filthy and unwashed the group was, everything that touched him felt greasy like they were leaving stains. The cock angled and then shoved forward, no foreplay, no teasing, no ensuring mutual pleasure. They were here to take. 

Spain was breathing heavily, breathing quickly, panic and adrenaline coursing through his veins. He was stuck. Trapped. And then he felt the cock between his cheeks and he decided to try one last time. He couldn't move. Couldn't fight… but if they thought he was going to be quiet then they had another thing coming. 

He opened his mouth and screamed. One last-ditch attempt. 

Through the burlap someone shoved something hard forcing it into his mouth, forcing the burlap in as well, yet another rope around his head typing it in place. Spain was muffled, choking, hard to breathe through his nose, impossible to breathe through his mouth. The man behind him jerked him by the binding around his neck and jerked himself forward, breaching into Spain without warning.

Spain bit down on the burlap and rope as he made a guttural sound deep in his throat. 

For a moment he was thankful for the sack around his head, it hid the tears trekking down his cheeks well. He couldn't believe this was happening again. 

The man groaned and grunted and picked up a punishing rhythm meant only to get him off. "His ass, I knew it would be tight," 

"Come on, I want a go," 

"Fuck I just got in, just give me a second. Here we go…" it wasn't even a minute of thrusting before the man jerked and spilled inside him. He was immediately replaced by another dick, slightly larger Spain could feel, shoving inside him just as carelessly. The hands never left him, the perverted muttering never ceased, and never once did they address him as a human being. He was an object, a fuck toy, a sleeve. 

The second man finished and a third was already inside him. It was impossible for Spain to know how many were left, how many times each would want to claim him. The pain never went away, it just sort of numbed itself to his perception. Which was worse? Barely being able to breathe, being wrenched and forced into such a painful position, or the railroad train of never-ending dicks ramming into him? 

"Too bad we can't fuck his mouth too…"

"Can't let him see us, too risky,"

Another man came inside him, another cock sliding into the communal slick piling in his ass. 

Spain continued to silently cry, refusing to let a sob pass his lips, refusing to let them feel any sense of having broken him, even though he felt shattered into hundreds of thousands of pieces. His legs trembled with every man that used him, when would it end?

As another man came and went, Spain's legs threatened to give out. 

Please, let it end…

By now the sack was wet from saline sadness, and he sniffled, a futile effort as his nose ran, made it even harder to catch his breath.

The only things holding him up were the hands on him and eventually, they moved him when they got tired of crushing him against the wall. Instead, they moved something heavy, a box or something, and let Spain fall over the top of it. Someone mounted him as soon as he was bent over it and even with the burlap sack Spain could hear the sloshing in his ass. Cum was bubbling from him and the man on top of him was dripping sweat into his back, hips moving frantically before spurting into him. 

"Ah, fuck, he's a nice fuck even after all of you… Alright, everyone's gone once yeah? Who's ready for round two?"

A nimiety of voices responded, rowdy and randy. 

That had only been round one? Spain was certain there were already men who had fucked him twice but hearing how many there were, how many he was expected to service, Spain's heart fell. There were just that many of them… and they had all been inside him. 

A faceless dick was thrust into him again, a heavy fat body covering his and panting against the bag over his head. 

"And remember, you can never tell anyone. If you do we'll fuck you until you die from blood loss, every time, over and over until you know your place bitch,"

Spain nodded frantically, a small sob finally escaping his mouth, he slammed his head into the crate, hoping to knock himself unconscious so he didn't have to feel the rape anymore… It didn't work…

"England's so greedy, keeping you all for himself. He doesn't care about you, just how he can use you. He hasn't even realized you're gone… His precious bitch,"

Spain closed his eyes, allowing himself to go numb and shut down, to try and believe it was all a nightmare…

\----

Inside the pub, England and Mateo were drinking and talking and laughing and currently engaged in an arm-wrestling contest on the bar. A semi-circle of patrons were watching and commenting. Several had placed bets.

"I'm telling you, Andorra, you can't beat me here!  **You can't win when I'm home** !" 

England braced his elbow on the bar, extended his open hand with a competitive grin. Everyone around them muttered and a few laughed. England was tiny compared to Mateo's brawny tall physique but he looked no less confident. 

Mateo grasped England's hand in his, digging his elbow into the wood, but he was distracted, he kept looking over at the door, waiting for Spain to wander back in. 

He never did. 

Mateo was beginning to worry now, looking around for unruly hair and tanned skin in a sea of pasty white. When England threw his strength into his arm Mateo didn't put up much of a fight and easily let England beat him with how distracted he was. 

"What the hell Andorra! I know you couldn't beat me but that was as weak as a human! Are you even trying?" England laughed and picked up his mug to drain yet another drink. He'd been steadily throwing them back and felt pleasantly buzzed.

**"Something isn't right,"** was all Mateo said. 

"What- you mean Spain? He can take care of himself. I bet he's just taking a shit somewhere," England said offhandedly, flagging the bartender down for another ale. 

Mateo brought his fist down against the bar,  **"something isn't right!"**

England jumped in surprise, glaring at Mateo for startling him. 

" **He's gonna come right through that door any minute now** . Calm the fuck down, christ almighty…"

Mateo scowled at him,  **"something is** **_wrong,_ ** **but you don't care."** And he stood, storming through the crowds of people to the door, he left in a hurry. 

England followed him with his eyes over the rim of his glass, still drinking steadily. It wasn't as fun to do it alone. Once he finished he slammed it down on the bar along with some coins and yelled after Mateo. 

"Hey, wait up, I'm coming too. Dammit!"

Mateo didn't wait, eyes scanning the harbor for any sign of Spain. He walked around, pausing to check just where Spain could be.

He looked down the side of the building, just a cursory glance. Something wasn't right… something was very, very wrong. 

**"Spain!"** He called, hoping for a response. England finally made it outside as well and he stood next to Mateo glancing around. For the first time, he felt a lick of worry. It wasn’t like Spain to wander off without a word. 

“You look around here and I’ll check the ship. Maybe he went back for something…” England started off toward the ship. He wasn’t running but he wasn’t going slow either. 

**"Spain!"** Mateo called, making around to the other side of the building. He didn't know what. But something told him to look closer this time, and he did. Even in the darkness of night, only the moon illuminating the sky, he could see the crates and barrels around the side, full or empty he wasn't sure, but it was then he saw what looked like a leg, peeking out from behind the crate. 

He rushed over,  **"Spain?"** And peered around the crate, his blood freezing at the sight.  **"Fuck…"** he fell to his knees beside his captain, wanting to check for injuries but it was too dark. So he awkwardly scooped Spain up with his one arm, his body far too still and far too lifeless for Mateo's liking. Using the cover of darkness and the sparse amount of people still outside, he began swiftly walking to the ship.  **"ENGLAND!"** He broke into a jog, "ENGLAND!!" 

England had already made it back to his ship and was coming out of the captain’s quarters scratching his head looking around when he heard Mateo shouting. He darted to the rail and leaned over squinting into the darkness at Mateo who was struggling to carry something, or rather someone. England felt a shock of fear shoot through him, sobering him as he realized it had to be Spain. He didn’t look right at all, legs dragging behind him, misshapen in the darkness, Mateo barely able to handle his limp weight. England pounded down the gangway and felt the blood leave him as he got closer, saw Spain had a bag tied over his head, wrenched back by a rope around his neck and tied to his wrists. 

“What happened? Spain!”

Mateo was out of breath by the time he made it back into the deck, a cocktail of adrenaline and negative emotions adding to the physical strain of carrying Spain and running.

**"He was behind a box like this,"** Mateo explained, already making his way to the captain's quarters. He hadn’t been able to release a single knot with only one hand.

England took his dagger and indicated to the bed with it, using his free hand to help Mateo lift and deposit Spain onto the bed. Once laid down England turned him to his side to begin cutting the knots from his wrist. They were tight and intricate - well-practiced sailor knots. Once the rope was loose he could pull the noose from his neck and finally lift the wet sack from his head.

"Spain! Spain! Can you hear me?" England asked desperately, taking in just how badly battered he was. Spain’s face revealed was a grievous sight, his skin pressed with the lines from the rope, cross-hatching from the burlap, mouth bleeding at the corners and his nose crusted over from snot, eyes tarnished blank things that still seeped tears like a leaking hull. He was splotchy and dazed and unresponsive.

Mateo looked at the hand-shaped bruises littering the visible parts of Spain's body, he shifted his ripped shirt down his arms and saw similar welts and bruises from nails and tight grip. 

He looked at England,  **"what should we do?"**

Spain felt the shifting of the sack, shifting his shirt. He whimpered and scrunched his eyes shut tighter. 

England saw the signs of abuse, saw the marks and the way the ropes had been tied. There was a roaring in his ears, his vision tinting red around the edges, but shock kept him from exploding. He had to confirm it before he'd believe it. 

"We should take his clothes off… check for injury…" England said, his voice strained and hands shaking as he pulled the remains of Spain's shirt off from behind, got his finger under the waist of his pants. He rolled it down slowly, sucking in a breath at what he saw. It was just as he'd feared - Spain had been raped. Again. And judging from the volume of cum oozing from his bloody stretched-out ass, the word creampie coming to mind, it had been far more than one. 

England shuddered, overwhelmed by his rage, so thick and dense he could barely breathe through it. He gently rolled Spain back over and asked in a low growl.

"Who did this to you, Spain… I'll kill them."

Spain peeled open one eye but didn't say anything. 

**"Spain?"**

His eyes slid over to Mateo, dull and very little light in them. 

"Spain, please, say something, tell me who was it?!" England said more loudly, grabbing Spain by the shoulders and squeezing, trying to get his attention. 

Mateo held England's shoulder,  **"don't raise your voice. It won't help."**

Spain closed his eyes, forcing England's hands away with all the fight he had left. 

"He was just with us… he wasn't even gone that long… how could this happen?" England asked out loud, not expecting an answer, just vibrating with the need to do something, the need to fix this somehow. He turned and punched the wall hard, knuckles aching from the impact, but it wasn't nearly enough. England needed to kill someone. 

Mateo watched them both, looking between them, feeling an ache in his chest. 

**"Who would have the numbers to do something like this?"** He immediately began thinking.  **"They didn't want him to see their faces."**

"They knew who he was, who they would have to answer to…" England felt lightheaded and sick all at once. "It was someone from my crew… My men did this… Spain, please, talk to me! Tell me who and I'll draw and quarter them myself! I don't care who it is, just tell me!" England's head was spinning, filing through his crew in his head, trying to figure out which of them would most likely be a rapist. 

Mateo listened to him ramble, picking up words and piecing it together like a puzzle. 

**"What if he** **_can't_ ** **speak?"**

England began pacing furiously beside the bed, back and forth wearing down a path from how rapidly he moved. He didn't know what to do with his agitation, his need for vengeance. It felt like he was filled with bees, swarming and buzzing and stinging in his chest, desperate to be let out at a target. 

"If he can't talk then I'll  _ make  _ someone else talk… Watch over him," England ordered, already marching toward the door. 

Mateo watched, traveling to the basin and grabbing the pitcher and a cloth. He went back to Spain and sat on the bed beside him, beginning to wash him down, starting at his neck and working over his shoulders. He massaged down his arms, trying to wipe everything away. Handling him with care, like he would break if he didn't receive the right treatment. 

He slowly wiped him down, taking time to clean him up as best as possible. Focused on the rough places the rope had burned him. Cleaning the dried cum, and the not-so-dried cum from his body and grimacing. There was so much of it… 

He cleaned the blood too, cleaning down his legs and taking time with his feet to clean the dirt from the alley from them. 

Finally, he stopped, looking at Spain's still form and hoping he'd recover soon. Watching the rise and fall of his chest. 

Mateo covered him with a blanket, and he immediately curled up into the warmth. 

Beyond the ship, back on the dock and through the streets of Portsmouth, England was on a rampage. Between his rage and need for revenge for Spain as well as his drunken disregard for human life, he was on a warpath against any crew member he happened to find. His senses were heightened, his strength singing through him, and when he burst back into the tavern and saw a table full of his men laughing and boasting he immediately took his hat off and slid off to the side so as not to be noticed, sneaking closer and closer to their table. Eventually, even through the din of the bar, he could overhear what they were saying. 

"There's nothing better than busting a nut in a bitch,"

"Can you believe how many we got in so fast?"

"The whole damn crew, hahaha! It's easy to cum fast when you're afraid of being found out," the whole table erupted in laughter and England felt as though he'd been stabbed. His whole crew… traitors and abusers… where had they learned it from though? Who has given implicit permission to objectify Spain? 

This was his fault. 

Still, he couldn’t let the seething black guilt building in his heart get in the way. Not now. He could hate himself for what happened later. Now, he was going to draw blood for him. Spain would never have to see or hear these men ever again. England stalked back out to the front, waiting by the door to grab the first of his men unlucky enough to walk out alone. 

\----

Mateo carded his fingers through Spain's hair for only Lord knew how long, listening to strained breathing and Spain's quiet, subdued sobs. 

**"Spain…"**

His sobs grew quieter. Hiding the sound out of fear. 

Mateo watched, began stroking his hair and singing his lullaby again, watching as Spain's body stopped jerking, sobs slowed, and he turned to lean against Mateo's knee with his head. 

Mateo's fingers didn't leave Spain's hair and Spain's voice didn't leave his mouth. But that was okay. At least he was responding now. 

He began repeating the lullaby softly. 

England trudged into the captain’s quarters, glancing wearily at Spain, Mateo hovering protectively next to him. He sighed, tossed the burlap sack at Spain on the bed. It was the same one that had been pulled from his head, now sodden a deep dark red. 

“Here love, see what I’ve done for you…” England panted, gripping his head. The murders, though he wasn’t as connected as Spain, still made his head pound ferociously, gave him a migraine. He felt sick like he needed to sit down. Even so. It was worth it. He couldn’t wait to see Spain’s reaction. 

Mateo eyed the bag warily, noting the blood and mess soaking through. 

**"What--"**

Spain also looked, opening his eyes and stiffening when he saw the blood. He looked at England, starting to shake and tremble. 

**"England…"** Mateo hissed,  **"you might want to remove whatever that is."**

“No. It’s proof. No one else will ever touch him again. I made sure of it. Look inside Spain, you’ll see… You don’t have to be afraid,” England said dully. He knew it wouldn’t make things right, not completely, but it was the only thing he could offer. The only thing he knew how to do to fix things. Yet more violence. 

He grabbed the flagon by the bedside and brought it to his lips. Alcohol to cover over his despair, his rage, his inability to protect someone precious to him… He was such a loser. Even after murdering his entire crew, he wouldn’t be surprised if Spain didn’t want to stay. He’d need to get more men. It would be the same situation eventually. England shook his head, swallowing the rum with a loud exhale.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t protect you…” England sank onto the bed, resting the flagon on one knee, holding his head with his other hand. 

Mateo watched, deciding to take his leave and let them talk, or something. He stood, going to sit outside and leave them to it. 

Spain looked at England through the corner of his eyes, he was tired. Worn out. He needed sleep but every time he closed his eyes there were sensations, phantom yet oh so real. He was still naked under the blanket, and he shifted to rest his head against England's leg. 

England shuddered, feeling him curl up against him. How could he be so… So forgiving?

"Spain… it's my fault this happened. As the captain, I should have full control over my men. But they… they did that to you. And it's only because I egged it on, enflamed their curiosities, made it clear you were a bitch and nothing more. And I was wrong… So, so wrong for that. They're all dead now. But… I'm so sorry… I'll do anything, just tell me and it's done. What do you need right now, Spain?" England asked carefully and delicately curling his fingers into Spain's hair.

Spain sighed, the sound rough and raw, closing his eyes and taking a shaky breath. 

He didn't know what to say. A quiet rage bubbled under his skin, but so did every other emotion he could name. First, he felt horror, betrayal, he knew no good would come from England's constant  _ bitch  _ routine, his crew had raped him? All of them? There was a twisted sense of relief, they were all dead? But then there was sorrow, England had done that for him? Killed his entire crew? He remembered the pain, the heartache, the headaches, the inability to forget any of them… 

He reached for England's hand and laced their fingers together, bringing it close to his chest to hold it to his chest, feel his heart, feel his warmth. He was alive. They both were… and Mateo too. That's all that mattered to Spain. 

England watched as Spain curled around his hand, pulling him closer. He mulled over everything, still not sure what to do. Only that he didn't trust anyone. 

"What if I sold the ship. Offloaded all the supplies and treasure and used it to buy a caravel. Won't need a crew to sail that, just you and me and Andorra, fishing and sailing to our heart's content. We can leave the humans behind for a while, start fresh somewhere," England mused out loud. 

Spain listened, imagining what life could be like without a crew, without any sort of help other than themselves… it sounded nice. If unrealistic. 

He nodded against England's leg. 

"But… is that what  _ you _ want?" 

England looked at Spain, relieved to hear his voice. 

“I already killed them all. We have to leave regardless, and I don’t want to share you with anyone. We can go wherever you want, do whatever you want,” England offered. Anything to make Spain smile again. 

Spain felt giddy, felt numb, felt… unsure about what he wanted… 

"Let's do it." 

England smiled and stroked Spain’s head, his headache receding as they settled on a plan. “I need to get rid of the bodies, you wanna watch?”

Spain shook his head, not sure if he could handle something like that after what happened, perpetrators or not. 

England leaned over and planted a small kiss on top of his head. 

“Alright, I’ll be back after I dump the trash,” England stood up and began emptying the contents of the massive trunk at the foot of the bed, blankets, and heavy clothes until finally just the empty trunk which he dragged loudly from the room. He could fit at least five men in there, would use cannon chains for the rest to weigh them all down in the bottom of the harbor. Selling the ship wasn’t as hard a decision as England had imagined. He was tired of it, ready for something new. Spain’s assault just made him want to start fresh, completely free of the need to act. No need to call him bitch if there wasn’t anyone around. 

Why had he even done that at all? If selling the ship would give him a sense of peace after fucking up so bad it was a small price to pay. He hefted man and after man into the trunk, shoving the entire thing overboard when he couldn’t fit anymore in. He was grateful no one really cared about these scalawags, he was happy to be rid of them. He felt lighter the more he dumped. 

It was starting to get lighter on the eastern horizon by the time England finished disposing of the bodies and he made his way back into the captain quarters. Mateo and Spain were curled up asleep on the bed and England slipped in behind Spain, snuggling up to sleep a few hours himself. They would figure the rest out later. 

\----

The mirror was cracked, a large slice through the surface. It'd been from their latest fight, their latest battle for dominance. The satin ribbon in her hand felt heavy, tying it around her hair and securing it into a tight, bushy ponytail was almost agonizing, like her head would bow under the weight of her new manifesto. 

She wrapped her hand in the skirt of her dress, raising her fist and punching the mirror and shattering it like ice, picking up a shard and bringing it to her nape. She began sawing through her hair, under the ribbon, and tearing through her thick, unruly locks. She grunted as she worked, forgetting just how dense it was, how she'd let it grow so wild over the years because of France. 

A clump of hair was now in her fist and she lowered it, looking at it and inspecting it. Her head felt lighter now. The back of her neck was cold compared to earlier. It was refreshing. 

She tossed it aside with little regard, letting it fall and making her way back into the corridors. With a smirk on her face, she flipped her short hair behind her, sauntering down the corridor and past ladies of the court, earning gasps and hushed whispers. 

It'd spread like wildfire now. 

France found her within the hour, his eyes burning in anger. He eyed her distastefully as he stalked closer. 

"I didn't want to believe it when I heard the ladies gossiping but here you are, shaved and shorn and brazen as a boy. How could you ruin your hair like that? What drove you to disgrace yourself like this?" France asked, grabbing her by the shoulders before turning her head side to side and taking in her hack job.

She shrugged her shoulders, "fancied a change." She spoke lightly, but her expression was anything but, hardened eyes revealing her intentions without uttering a word. 

"A change? You did this to get at me, I'm sure. You're lucky hair grows back… Don't mar your beauty again. It reflects on me, and I can't have my subordinates running around looking like a mongrel. Ugh, I can't even look at you. Begone from my sight," France ordered, pinching the bridge of his nose as if it physically pained him to look at her. 

"Oh, I'll be gone, alright," she hissed, turning on her heel and made her way back to her bedroom. 

Once there, she locked the door and immediately began getting changed, she didn't have time to waste. Switching from her dress into the stablehand get-up she used to wear. 

She reached under her bed, pulling out linens and fine silks, knotted and tied into a makeshift rope, she secured it around her bedpost and she tossed it from her window, watching it tumble and whip with its own weight. 

She let Belle take her place on her shoulder, coiled around her bicep. Now wearing britches and riding boots, she scaled the wall, abseiling down and making a break for the stables. 

She approached a Percheron gelding, dark brown body with a star in the center of his forehead. She saddled up, hoisting herself into the seat and kicking the horse into motion with a shout. The young gelding broke through the fence, wood splintering and shattering. 

Breaking into a gallop to escape the chateau grounds was easy on a warhorse, but she wasn't going to ride the animal to death or exhaustion, once out into the countryside, she'd slow to a walk, head from the South of France through the fields and countryside until she'd crossed the border into Spain or Andorra, whichever she came across first. 

\----

_ England dreamed. Remembered.  _

_ Back on shore he slowly and steadily rounded his men up. He’d catch one coming outside, and either stab him straightaway or move him into the alley by the point of his sword. With each one he knew their guilt was assured for the fear he saw in their eyes. The few who managed to get out of the pub through the back he tracked down like a bloodhound, using his connection with them, his connection to his land, triangulating and zeroing in to drag them back by his teeth.  _

_ The ones he didn’t murder outright he took back to the ship. The chain-gang below deck was full, and the men all begged for forgiveness, for mercy, demanding he treat Spain as his station demanded. Once he collected all his remaining men, he went down the line and took something from each of them. Some it was an ear, others it was the tip of their noses, a few he took fingers from. Just as long as each of them was bleeding somewhere. There would be no mercy. Their screams, shouts and ridicule, and begging fell on deaf ears. England had turned into a bloodied machine.  _

_ Even as vengeful as he was, when he went down the line, butchering each man, his headache grew worse. He could feel the cuts. Vaguely, ghostly. Like phantom pain. He knew each man’s name whether he wanted to or not. Where he was from, whether he had a family, England just knew. But he also knew they were monstrous men who had to be destroyed. So he ignored the facts and family trees that pressed themselves into his mind as he looked each traitor in the eye and ended him. He sneered through the memories and the commiserating sensations. Even if it hurt him, he would murder every single one of them for what they did to Spain.  _

\----

Spain looked over the bow at the water cresting against the vessel. He sighed as they headed into open water, watching England barter and trade all day had been hard. Loading the smaller caravel with all the loot and leftover gold after burying the rest of the booty was even harder. All he wanted was to escape. 

They'd procured enough food and provisions to last them until Bilbao in the Bay of Biscay. The prospect of being so close to home was soothing. To finally step foot on sunny Spanish soil after ten years… even if it was just a short stay before moving on to their next destination. 

But, of course, it was never that easy. Where he should've been, and was to an extent, excited, he also remembered England's  _ joke.  _

He'd ransom his ass for all the gold in the Spanish treasury. 

And while he now had faith, a blunt reassurance that England had never meant it, their relationship changing like the tides, like the winds around the exposed little island England called home, reassurance was still wearing thin… England had just lost everything, he was undoubtedly going to feel desperate. And what better way to find a better crew? A rewarded ransom earned respect. Like a dragon, the larger the hoard, the more treasure acquired, the more feared, revered, and strong they appeared. 

Spain felt his cheeks growing cold with tears silently rolling down his cheeks. To top it all off the rape was still raw. He'd barely spoken to anyone since it'd happened, and when he did he was apologetic, cowardly, he closed his eyes with a shaky sigh, arms cradling himself as they finally breached the harbor walls, headed South to the North coast of Spain. 

He shivered, a full-body tremble in the early morning light. 

England felt strangely seeing his ship get sold off. He’d had so many adventures on that vessel, felt free and powerful and swift when flying along the sea on it. Truth be told it was for the best, it needed repair and to be refinished and England couldn’t stand the idea of trying to find a whole new crew to pilot it. It was better to start over fresh. Still, it was like losing a long-time friend and he couldn’t help the twinge of sadness he felt seeing the new owner stride aboard and start checking out her hold and hull. 

He sighed and turned, looking for Spain who was still huddled up on the bottom of the ship deck. He’d been subdued and quiet since they’d found him. England hadn’t pushed it, but he was worried. He knew how damaging it was for that to happen, but with so many? All at once and over and over? Especially after just healing from Lucille’s madness… England didn’t know how Spain was keeping it together as well as he was. 

Mateo made his way to the helm, forcing England from his position in order to take over. 

**"Check on him."** He said simply, knowing they had to build the bridge of trust again before they could move forward in anything. Spain and himself had always been close. As thick as thieves. So of course he'd recemented his loyalty to him immediately after what'd happened. 

He knew Spain well enough to know he was craving touch, craving closeness, but unable to reach out and grasp it himself. He hoped England would notice that too. 

England was surprised when Mateo took over the helm and practically shoved him off. He knew it was the right thing to do, comfort and confront it instead of ignoring and letting Spain sink deeper into himself. Still, England felt distinctly like everything had been his fault. It  _ had _ been his fault, how could he help Spain? There wasn’t anything else he could do or say but still, he had to try. He glared at Mateo but there was no venom in it. He gave a curt nod and turned to slowly stroll over to Spain. He stood at the rail next to him, towering over him and his curled-up form. 

“Hey, Spain… I, uh, how are you feeling?”

Spain looked up at England, features tired and eyes heavy. He hadn't been sleeping much since the rape. 

"I'm okay," he said softly, but his voice was quiet, resigned about what had happened and his future… Where did he go from here? How would he recover? 

"I, uh, you looking forward to seeing home again? You'll be powerful, no one will be able to… well, you know. Fuck…" England trailed off feeling particularly clumsy. Why did he even bring that up?

Spain hummed, leaning on his elbows on the rail of the ship, "I'm… nervous. About a lot of things." 

"Yeah, w-well, like what? You can talk to me about it. I won't… I won't make fun of you…" England regretted all the times he mocked Spain for every little thing. It made his genuine attempt at empathy now seem clunky and fake. How could he trust someone who let him get hurt like that? Who had encouraged it?

Spain shrugged, "what's the point? Nothing will change if I talk about it…" 

"It'll change how I approach you. I don't know what is going on with you… I mean, obviously, you were hurt badly but I don't know anything else. Why you left in the first place, what's waiting for you upon return. If nothing else, I can help you prepare for whatever it is," England offered. He desperately wanted to touch Spain, had even raised a hand to stroke down his back but he hesitated, not knowing if he even wanted to be touched. And if he did there was still no guarantee it would be him he desired.

Spain noticed how he hesitated to touch him and sighed. "I'm not going to break…" 

“That’s not the same thing as wanting it though… I… I’m sorry. I want to do what you want me to do… And I don’t know anymore… After what happened,” England tried to explain. He gently put his hand on Spain’s back. Didn’t rub or move it, just let it rest there. 

The tension from Spain's shoulders lifted slightly and he sighed. "I'm sorry…" he rested his head on England's shoulder. 

“You have nothing to apologize for. None of that was your fault. It was all me… I never should have talked about you like that, belittled you… And I didn’t notice when you were gone, Mateo is the one who- fuck, Andorra is the one who found you… I didn’t do anything but incite it…” England was grateful for his head on his shoulder, leaning his over on top of Spain’s resting together. 

Spain nodded. "I'd be lost without both of you." 

England sighed, relieved. He began to move his hand, wide slow up and down movements over the back of his jacket.

“I’m glad it’s just going to be us for a while. No need to put up a front,” England murmured, letting his stroking arm slip around Spain’s waist and hold him closer. He didn’t need to be mean or brash or prove anything if there weren’t any humans around. 

Spain smiled, looking at him. "I'm glad too, it's nice." He kissed his cheek.

He yawned, burying his face in the crook of his elbow to hide it. "I… thank you." 

“You thank me? For what? I… shit. We don’t need to talk about it. It’s not your job to make me feel better or whatever. I definitely don’t deserve to be thanked. I’m the one who… Fuck. Spain, it’s not about me. Listen, we can go wherever you want and do whatever you want. You’re the captain now,” England decided, taking his hat and plopping it on Spain’s head. 

Spain froze when he felt the weight of the hat on his head, "no…" 

“Yeah. Really. You get to decide everything now. You’re in charge,” England nodded, feeling more sure of his decision. He’d been in charge and look where it got them both? Spain was more level-headed, more rational than his crazed drunken ass. It would be nice to let him call the shots for a while. 

"I can't…" Spain shook his head, taking the hat off and handing it back to England. "I don't even have control of myself, I can't look after myself, let alone other people."

Spain looked down at the water, closing his eyes. "You're doing great…" 

England looked at him doubtfully. There was no way that was true. Still, the hat felt heavy in his hands. What had once been a peacock crown of power had now become an iron wreath. He didn't want that responsibility anymore. Killing his men had been for vengeance, but also to free himself from being saddled with them. 

"If you don't want it, and I don't want it, then I guess all we have left is Andorra. He'll be captain. What do you think?"

Spain smiled, "I think he'd tell you to shove it up your ass, personally, but I think he'd be a good captain… he's not afraid to get his hands-- _ hand  _ dirty… I was going to make him a fleet captain one day." 

"There's only three of us and I won't do anything I don't like. Might as well put him in charge for the rest," England shrugged. "You don't need the burden and I don't want the hassle."

Spain nodded, leaning into him, "sounds good to me… are you sure?" He held England's hand, thumb stroking the back of his palm.

"Yeah, I'm sure. I'm exhausted. I know you are too," England nuzzled in closer. "Let's let him cut his teeth as a leader."

Spain smiled softly, "we'll make a captain out of him yet." 

England hummed and stroked idly at Spain. He hadn’t held him or kissed him or done anything since his crew’s betrayal. But now he wanted to, was afraid of shattering the thin veneer Spain had applied to himself. Acting calm, he knew it was more likely he was still just numb, and England was a selfish fool for trying to push it but he leaned in and kissed Spain’s cheek gently, lingering there to see what his reaction would be. 

Spain twisted slightly, a kiss on the cheek becoming a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He kissed back, face quickly growing warm. 

England blinked and took in a breath, pulling back to look Spain in the eyes. 

“You… You’re okay with this?”

Spain looked away, nibbling on his lip. "I… don't know. That was fine, I- I mean, more than fine… but I don't know about anything else yet…" he said quietly, clearing his throat. "But kissing is good…" 

England smiled, felt warm from the inside out. 

“Kissing works for me. Lord knows I haven’t gotten enough of that from you,” England said, cheeks heating as he said it. He sounded arrogant but felt completely vulnerable, he knew it wasn’t good enough, even if he wanted it now, and was afraid of hearing it from Spain. That he wouldn’t get to feel his lips because of how he’d messed everything up. The fact he was still willing to kiss him, after what had happened, didn’t feel real. “Only if you want it though…” 

Spain looked down, "things are going to be rough for a while…" he shrunk in on himself, trying to avoid the tremor in his voice. "It was… not pleasant, and I don't know if I can handle that sort of stuff anymore, at least not right away… but kissing I can manage… I want it." 

England nodded, understanding. Though their aversions ran oddly opposite of each other, he knew what it felt like to not be able to do certain specific acts. Not without consequence anyway. He didn’t mind taking his time, being patient with this particular problem. 

“Alright. Just know, I never want to hurt you. Not again. I think we’ve both had enough of that, right?” England asked with a smile, cupping Spain’s cheek as they leaned close. 

"Thank you," Spain smiled, "I'm… not wholly against having sex, I just don't think I could handle it right now…" He smiled, "there's a definite difference between you and your crew. And I know the difference." 

“That’s good… And there’s no rush. Really. I spent decades on the sea alone before our alliance came along. I’m used to taking care of myself. It’s just the kissing I can’t do alone…” England smiled and pressed his lips close again, stealing another kiss as they spoke, heads ducked close together. 

Spain wrapped his arms around England's shoulders, kissing him back with tentative lips and pressing close to England's body. After what had happened he'd been craving something, now he knew it was this. Something secure in a frightening world.

\----

Mateo watched without comment as the two nations began to kiss openly and lean against each other on the boat, talking to each other for a long while and exchanging nothing but kiss after kiss after kiss. Eventually, it felt almost like an intrusion and he focused his gaze outward on the sea, keeping track of their heading and feeling the wind behind them. The caravel was smaller and easier to man on his own, he could navigate, steer, and adjust the sails all by himself and after everything they had all been through he was grateful for the clear and consuming role. Less time to think of other less helpful things. 

It was much later when England and Spain came back over to him, clutching and holding each other as they walked like they were teens stuck together. 

“So, Andorra-” 

“You can call him Mateo you know…” 

England grumbled to himself before restarting. 

“As I was saying… Andorra. We decided that you get to be in charge of this vessel. You’re the captain and you can call the shots. But you better forget about me swabbing the deck or doing that servile stuff. All it means is that you’re setting our course and we’ll trust your decisions.” 

Spain looked at England and rolled his eyes,  **"he says you're the captain now, he'll swab the deck and worship wherever you walk."**

Mateo blinked owlishly before narrowing his eyes suspiciously.  **"Right."** He turned his attention back to the open waters, fully believing it was some sort of twisted nation joke. 

England punched Spain in the shoulder. 

“ **It’s not a joke. We’re sick of it. So you take over for a while, got it?** ” England corrected, glaring at Spain. 

Spain laughed softly. A snicker. 

Mateo looked between them, deciding to believe them. 

**"Is that wise?"**

“Wiser than either of us… We’re too jaded and fucked up to make good decisions anymore. You’re still fresh, still within your mortal life too! You’re way better adjusted than either of us,” England explained, not bothering to translate. He was still adamant that Mateo learn English.

Spain looked between them,  **"very wise."**

Mateo looked at Spain with a dead expression, his gaze flitting to England. "Okay." 

England let out the breath he'd been holding. He hasn't realized how much the captaincy was weighing on him. Before he needed a crew to feel powerful and in control, giving him the ability to take what he wanted where and whenever. But it seemed much less important now. He didn't need a crew to feel okay about himself, he'd found a different refuge. And he was happy for the calm safe harbor he found in Spain's arms. 

No more misunderstandings, no more mutiny, no more fighting. He just wanted to sink into Spain forever and not deal with the rest of the world. England clapped a hand onto Mateo's shoulder in gratitude. 

"Thanks. It'll be good experience for you," England predicted. He turned his eyes on Spain. Smiled at him. 

Spain returned the smile, watching as England seemed to let out a breath and relax. He sighed softly, knew Mateo would do fine, great, even.

He stifled a yawn. 

Mateo looked over at Spain and shook his head, "rest.  **That's an order."**

Spain sucked in a sudden, surprised breath, quirking his brow and looking at England before turning his attention back to Mateo. "Not going to argue there." 

England laughed and reached to pull Spain close to him, holding him as they rocked together on the ship. 

"How do you like that? Now you're gonna have to take orders from both of us… Want to sleep below deck? Or we got the nice hammock up here," England motioned to the netting over the tiny hull that formed a hammock across the opening.

"Uhh…" Spain hummed. "Below deck." 

England hummed in agreement, gave Mateo a final nod, and then ushered Spain below deck to their cramped quarters. Being a smaller vessel they could feel the buck and sway of the waves more closely, the creaking closer all around them. But England was comfortable down here, it was cozy. No room for anyone to be hiding to jump out at them, their own private cocoon. He gave Spain room to get comfortable, taking off his own jacket and boots in the process. 

Spain simply collapsed face-first onto the bedding, legs hanging gracelessly over the side and boots still on his feet. He closed his eyes and settled down. 

The caravel reminded him of his first ship, a handful of men and Mateo at his side. He was admittedly more familiar with a caravel than he was with a galleass or galleon. The gentle sway of the vessel on the smooth waters was soothing. 

England gently pulled Spain’s boots from his feet and set them next to his before crawling up to join Spain on the bed, smaller and less cushy than his old one, but he was so much happier since he was with Spain. They cuddled up together and drifted off on the waves that carried them.

\----

It was raining as they docked in Bilbao, Mateo navigating through the sheets of precipitation to safely moor along the sea wall. Spain jumped across the gap between the ship and onto the wall and England tossed the ropes over to him. 

Expertly tying them to the moorings even with the ropes streaming water, Spain looked over his shoulder at Bilbao, pausing to take in a breath. He could feel it. For the first time in ten years, he could feel the life of his people thrum through his veins, their love, their life, their culture, and everything else. 

It was overwhelming, and he coughed to clear his throat of the lump that was swelling there.

It was then he heard it through the steady patter of the rain, a ruckus, discord in the usually bustling but at-peace port. He stood, turning to face inland just in time to watch a group of burly and muscular, pale men attack someone much thinner than them. He watched them tackle the person to the floor, the glint of a knife in the ringleader's hand was visible even through the sheets of rain. 

"¡Hey!" Spain called, immediately stomping over. 

Mateo had been dropping the boardwalk to the sea wall when he'd heard Spain shout, looking up to see him going over to a group of hooded men, he cursed under his breath.

England too noticed the scuffle and was just going to watch and laugh but cursed when he saw Spain was already getting involved. He ran to disembark and back him up.

Spain drew nearer, watching them kick the body on the ground, a puddle splashed around them from the violence. Something was telling him this wasn't right, something was amiss. He observed until they looked up, then he felt the thrill of a fight sing its melody in his veins. 

_ "Stay out of this,"  _ the ringleader growled in French. 

His blood ran cold. That's what was wrong. They weren't native to the area, and knowing France, he was scheming. There was a reason they were here... 

He raised his fist, connecting it with the one in control's face, the other men taking a step back in surprise. 

_ "Bastard…"  _ The ringleader swung at Spain, but it was easily blocked and he roundhouse kicked the leader, sending him down. 

Spain immediately got between the perpetrators and their victim. 

**"You okay?"** He asked quickly, turning his attention to the men surrounding them. 

They didn't answer, instead, they struggled to their feet, clutching their middle beneath the blue cloak they wore. They were injured. 

"Spain!" England called, throwing Alfanje across the distance between them, quickly running to Spain's side. Alfanje clattered to the ground in front of Spain, and he picked it up, holding it at the men surrounding the three of them, watching as the rain sluiced off the blade.

A spray of blood splattered the seawall, across Spain's shirt and he looked to the caravel, seeing Mateo with a pistol. He'd hit the neck of a man flanking them and Spain grinned. He may be his dominant arm down, but he was still a dead-shot even in the foul weather. 

The three other men were quickly dispatched, Spain with Alfanje, England with his pistol and dagger, and Mateo with the flintlock. All that was left was the ringleader. 

The victim, who'd remained quiet in the fight so far, removed their weapon, a nasty-looking knife with a barrel attached to the guard. The weapon caught Spain's eye and he froze. 

A gunshot split the air and the ringleader toppled, staggering until he fell into the harbor. 

Spain took a step back, raising his hands in a placating motion. 

**"Relax,"** a rough, parched voice crooned, hand reaching up for the hood of the cloak, finally being lowered to reveal endless mahogany curls cut to just above her shoulders. Lucille tossed the pistol-knife in front of Spain's feet.  **"You're not my target this time."**

England laughed when he saw who it was and lifted his pistol, shooting her in the head without hesitation or consultation. He kept laughing as her body crumpled to the deck, a dark red and pink splatter behind her. 

“Serves you right, bitch!” 

Spain didn't realize how heavily he was breathing, how utterly terrified he felt until it was over. Spain watched her body collapsed in on itself, and then he looked down to the knife-pistol. 

"E-- England…" he stammered, "I… can you move the knife, please…" 

England heard Spain over his laughing and immediately dropped the smile, looking to where Spain was focused he ran forward and snatched it up, snarling at the inanimate object. It had been forced in his mouth, used to shoot and torture Spain, been inside him… Throwing it from the pier to rust under the waves seemed too peaceful an end for the weapon that had done so much harm. England wanted to melt it down, or… Something. Still, getting it out of sight was most important. He tucked it away in his jacket and turned back, hands empty, moving closer to Spain. 

“It’s okay, love… It’s okay, it’s gone, she’s dead and we’ll tie her up in the caravel until she revives… Wait, those were Frenchmen, right? Is France nearby?” England abruptly looked up and scanned the docks, seeing nothing. 

"We'll have to wait to find out if that bastard is here," Spain grumbled, nodding at Lucille. "Only she knows." 

“Fuck. I should have shot her in the shoulder…”

Mateo approached the two of them,  **"don't you think it was strange for her to be getting attacked by them?"** And he knelt down to Lucille's form, inspecting her wounds that weren't caused by England. 

“She undoubtedly fucked someone else over and didn’t get away with it this time. If France isn’t around all the better for us, but let’s move quickly, that gunshot undoubtedly will cause a scene,” England said, kneeling by Mateo to help lift her deadweight. 

Mateo lifted her into his arm, hoisting her over his shoulder with England's help and retreating to the ship. 

Spain followed them, eyes flitting around them to see if he could spot France. He couldn't. 

He disappeared below deck after Mateo and Lucille, looking at England with uncertainty. 

"Is this a good idea?" 

"I don't know! But I'm not comfortable with her running around loose, not until we know what's going on. Besides, it's not up to me," England said, looking pointedly at Mateo. 

Spain looked down, sighing softly and looking at Mateo. 

Mateo lay Lucille on the bed, looking between the other two. Her copper curls were dark with blood, staining across the pillow.  **"Something isn't right."**

"Yeah, she wouldn't move without France or his permission. He's up to something, now that she's a nation he could be sending her on a mission… But, why would he? He keeps his subordinate nations in his house to control them and let his armies do the work." England pinched between his eyes and shook his head, just a flash of fear as he remembered his old room in the chateau, took a second and a deep breath to help it pass and fade. "We'll just wait until she recovers and ask her herself."

Spain nodded, resting his head on his hand and watching Lucille closely. 

Mateo was also keeping a close eye on her. Perched on the edge of the bed, he looked down at his hand, clenched in his lap. 

**"She… said something. Last time."**

Spain looked over at Mateo curiously. 

"Whatever it is, spit it out. Damn, I didn't bring any of my iron cuffs from the ship, did I?" England said, rummaging through the storage hampers built into the side walls. 

**"What did she say?"**

Mateo watched England, before turning back to Lucille. He swiped the hair from her face and looked at Spain.

**"He's… hurt her,"** Mateo said, struggling to find the words she used.  **"Her control is an illusion he created to keep her servile…"**

**"She told you this?"**

Mateo nodded,  **"when we--"** he coughed and looked away. He had no idea why he was so quiet about what happened when England and Spain were so… opposed to keeping quiet,  **"--she didn't have a clue what she was doing. All the bravado left her and she just shut down…"**

England paused hearing that. He turned and looked at Mateo then Lucille. He wouldn't have believed Mateo's story if only it wasn't so damnably familiar. Putting up a brave face, starting fights, feeling out of control everywhere else in his life. He knew what it was like. 

"That France… He plays a long game," England muttered, more to himself than anyone else. 

Spain heard England, wanted to give him comfort but wasn't sure if it would be well received in front of Mateo, so he refrained. He did, however, offer him a glance he hoped would convey how he felt. 

"He's a bastard," Spain grumbled, "how is it possible to hate someone more and more every day?" 

Mateo turned his attention back to Lucille, feeling impatient and wishing she'd just revive already. 

England finally found some rope and tossed it toward Mateo to catch one-handed. "Here, we can use this to secure her. It might be a while until she comes back."

Spain moved to stand,  **"England and I are going to get some fresh air, you okay, Mateo?"**

Mateo nodded, restraining Lucille's wrists and ankles.  **"Do what you need to."**

England didn't need to be told twice and he appreciated Spain giving him an out. He reached over and took his hand, holding it as he led them both out of the small hull. As they were walking up he asked, "Do you really believe her? That she's a victim or was she just using her wiles to get Mateo to trust her?"

"I don't know," Spain said simply. "But Mateo has a good judge of character, it just takes him a while to suss it out. He didn't tell me about what she'd said, so he's been stewing for a while on it before deciding to bring it up. I trust him, but I don't trust her. So… I don't know. I honestly don't want to know." He said, crossing his arms over his chest. "If I'm being totally honest, she knife-raped me. She killed me. And then she tried to do something else. I don't want to give a reason for her behavior because in my mind she's evil. Born that way and will die that way. I don't want a reason or an excuse for how she acts…" he buried his face in his hands, elbows resting on the rail. 

England put his hand on Spain's back and rubbed soothingly between his shoulder blades. 

"You don't have to forgive her for anything. Even if she was hurt in the past it doesn't give her the right to terrorize you now. Though… you still managed to forgive me. After everything I did to you…" England trailed off and let the implication stand for itself. He hated her and was planning to kill her again after they got all the info they could from her. But it still didn't lessen the parallels between them. She'd do the exact same thing to him if the tables were turned. "Guess anyone raised in that house turns out messed up."

England slumped on top of Spain, half hugging him, half resting on him. 

Spain sighed softly, "yeah…" he could feel the knots in his shoulders unwinding at England's steady weight. "I just… I don't know. I forgave you, yeah, but if what she says is true, if she has been hurt like you have, then I don't think I could stay angry with her…" 

Spain sighed again, looking down at the water. 

"It just makes me angrier at France for doing something so horrible, so twisted…"

"Yeah, he has no shame. No lines he won't cross. At least I was already a nation when he started on me, even if I was young. If what she said is true that means he did all that when she was still just a human girl. Disgusting…" 

"It makes me wonder what she's had to endure, as a human living in a nation's world…" 

England sighed and pressed his lips to the back of Spain's neck, just behind his ear. "Don't worry about her anymore. We'll know more when she can talk. There's no need to forgive or feel sorry for her because of her past. Doesn't change what she did, even if we know why she did it. She's tied up and France isn't anywhere to be found. We're okay."

Spain nodded, "for now…" he sunk into England's warmth, wishing he didn't have to think anymore. He closed his eyes and exhaled, breathing in England's scent and trying to stop his mind from overthinking. 

England nuzzled in and kept kissing lightly across the back of Spain's neck and nape, remembering something Spain said to him weeks ago now it seemed when he was in a broody bad mood. 

"Hey. Stop thinking so hard. You're gonna hurt yourself," England said, teasing in his voice as he went back to kissing. 

Spain paused, looked at him through narrow eyes, "little shit." But his tone was light and joking. He hummed softly, at the sensation of England's lips against his skin. His mind seemed to slow, growing sluggish and weary. "Thank you." 

"Mhmm. I could do more… But only if you want it," England offered. 

"I'd love to…" Spain said softly, "but I feel like it's still too soon, I'm sorry." He held England's hands in his.

England squeezed him tighter in his arms, pulling him upright and turning so they faced each other. He wanted Spain to know he was serious.

"It's okay, really. I'm not in a rush. You don't ever have to push yourself to do that. If you don't want it, neither do I," England said, feeling something shifting inside him as well as he said it. He meant to comfort Spain but he realized he was reassuring himself as well. Sex for him was changing from a tawdry tool, a torment, to something more treasured. Something he didn't want to taint. Spain was too important to waste cruelty on him. And England was tired of it anyway, abusing and dominating. Leave that to France. He didn't have to act the same way. 

"And the same goes for you, cariño…" Spain kissed him softly, a smile on his lips. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, this chapter was hard to write lol. Thanks everyone for sticking with us!

**Author's Note:**

> We'll update when we can! Reviews are appreciated.


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